CHRISTMAS 

EVE  ON 
LONESOME 


JOHN     FOX     JR 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS  A 


r 


CHRISTMAS  EVE 
ON    LONESOME 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Christmas  Eve  on  Lonesome.  Illus 
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CHRISTMAS  EVE 
ON  LONESOME 

AND  OTHER  STORIES 


BY 

JOHN  FOX,  JR. 


ILLUSTRATED 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
NEW  YORK::  1904 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published,   September,   1904 


TO 

THOMAS   NELSON   PAGE 


C  O  NTENTS 

Christmas   Eve  on   Lonesome  I 

The  Army  of  the   Callahan  15 

The  Last   Stetson  75 

The  Pardon  of  Becky  Day  149 

A  Crisis  for  the   Guard  169 

Christmas  Night  with   Satan  2OI 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Buck  saw  the  shadowed  gesture  of  an  arm, 

and  cocked  his  pistol  Frontispiece 

Facing 

Captain     Wells    descended    with     no     little  P*gC 
majesty  and  u  biffed "  him  34 

"  Speak  up,  nigger  !  "  64 

"  Pray  fer  yer  enemies,  Eli"  I2O 

IC  Listen  !      Do  you  want  a  dying  woman1  s 

curse?"  1 60 

The  sergeant,  dragging  Sturgeon,  looked  up 
into  the  blazing  eyes  of  a  girl  on  the 
sidewalk  192 

Satan  would  drop   the   coin   and  get   a   ball 

for  himself  206 

"  Papa,  I  carft  shoot  that  dog  "  230 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  ON  LONESOME 


CHRISTMAS  EVE  ON  LONESOME 

IT  was  Christmas  Eve  on  Lonesome. 
But  nobody  on  Lonesome  knew  that 
it  was  Christmas  Eve,  although  a  child  of 
the  outer  world  could  have  guessed  it,  even 
out  in  those  wilds  where  Lonesome  slipped 
from  one  lone  log-cabin  high  up  the  steeps, 
down  through  a  stretch  of  jungled  dark 
ness  to  another  lone  cabin  at  the  mouth  of 
the  stream. 

There  was  the  holy  hush  in  the  gray 
twilight  that  comes  only  on  Christmas  Eve. 
There  were  the  big  flakes  of  snow  that  fell 
as  they  never  fall  except  on  Christmas  Eve. 
There  was  a  snowy  man  on  horseback  in 
a  big  coat,  and  with  saddle-pockets  that 

[3] 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 

might  have  been  bursting  with  toys  for 
children  in  the  little  cabin  at  the  head  of 
the  stream. 

But  not  even  he  knew  that  it  was  Christ 
mas  Eve.  He  was  thinking  of  Christmas 
Eve,  but  it  was  of  Christmas  Eve  of  the 
year  before,  when  he  sat  in  prison  with  a 
hundred  other  men  in  stripes,  and  listened 
to  the  chaplain  talk  of  peace  and  good-will 
to  all  men  upon  earth,  when  he  had  for 
gotten  all  men  upon  earth  but  one,  and  had 
only  hatred  in  his  heart  for  him. 

"Vengeance  is  mine!"  saith  the  Lord. 

That  was  what  the  chaplain  had  thun 
dered  at  him.  And  then,  as  now,  he 
thought  of  the  enemy  who  had  betrayed 
him  to  the  law,  and  had  sworn  away  his 
liberty,  and  had  robbed  him  of  everything 
in  life  except  a  fierce  longing  for  the  day 
when  he  could  strike  back  and  strike  to  kill. 
[4] 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 

And  then,  while  he  looked  back  hard  into 
the  chaplain's  eyes,  and  now,  while  he 
splashed  through  the  yellow  mud  thinking 
of  that  Christmas  Eve,  Buck  shook  his 
head;  and  then,  as  now,  his  sullen  heart 
answered : 

"Mine!" 

The  big  flakes  drifted  to  crotch  and  twig 
and  limb.  They  gathered  on  the  brim  of 
Buck's  slouch  hat,  filled  out  the  wrinkles 
in  his  big  coat,  whitened  his  hair  and  his 
long  mustache,  and  sifted  into  the  yellow, 
twisting  path  that  guided  his  horse's  feet. 

High  above  he  could  see  through  the 
whirling  snow  now  and  then  the  gleam  of 
a  red  star.  He  knew  it  was  the  light  from 
his  enemy's  window;  but  somehow  the 
chaplain's  voice  kept  ringing  in  his  ears, 
and  every  time  he  saw  the  light  he  couldn't 
help  thinking  of  the  story  of  the  Star  that 

[5] 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 

the  chaplain  told  that  Christmas  Eve,  and 
he  dropped  his  eyes  by  and  by,  so  as  not  to 
see  it  again,  and  rode  on  until  the  light 
shone  in  his  face. 

Then  he  led  his  horse  up  a  little  ravine 
and  hitched  it  among  the  snowy  holly  and 
rhododendrons,  and  slipped  toward  the 
light.  There  was  a  dog  somewhere,  of 
course ;  and  like  a  thief  he  climbed  over  the 
low  rail-fence  and  stole  through  the  tall 
snow-wet  grass  until  he  leaned  against  an 
apple-tree  with  the  sill  of  the  window  two 
feet  above  the  level  of  his  eyes. 

Reaching  above  him,  he  caught  a  stout 
limb  and  dragged  himself  up  to  a  crotch 
of  the  tree.  A  mass  of  snow  slipped  softly 
to  the  earth.  The  branch  creaked  above 
the  light  wind;  around  the  corner  of  the 
house  a  dog  growled  and  he  sat  still. 

He  had  waited  three  long  years  and  he 
[6] 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 

had  ridden  two  hard  nights  and  lain  out 
two  cold  days  in  the  woods  for  this. 

And  presently  he  reached  out  very  care 
fully,  and  noiselessly  broke  leaf  and  branch 
and  twig  until  a  passage  was  cleared  for  his 
eye  and  for  the  point  of  the  pistol  that  was 
gripped  in  his  right  hand. 

A  woman  was  just  disappearing  through 
the  kitchen  door,  and  he  peered  cautiously 
and  saw  nothing  but  darting  shadows. 
From  one  corner  a  shadow  loomed  sud 
denly  out  in  human  shape.  Buck  saw  the 
shadowed  gesture  of  an  arm,  and  he 
cocked  his  pistol.  That  shadow  was  his 
man,  and  in  a  moment  he  would  be  in  a 
chair  in  the  chimney-corner  to  smoke  his 
pipe,  maybe — his  last  pipe. 

Buck  smiled — pure  hatred  made  him 
smile — but  it  was  mean,  a  mean  and  sorry 
thing  to  shoot  this  man  in  the  back,  dog 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 

though  he  was;  and  now  that  the  moment 
had  come  a  wave  of  sickening  shame  ran 
through  Buck.  No  one  of  his  name  had 
ever  done  that  before ;  but  this  man  and  his 
people  had,  and  with  their  own  lips  they 
had  framed  palliation  for  him.  What  was 
fair  for  one  was  fair  for  the  other,  they 
always  said.  A  poor  man  couldn't  fight 
money  in  the  courts;  and  so  they  had  shot 
from  the  brush,  and  that  was  why  they 
were  rich  now  and  Buck  was  poor — why 
his  enemy  was  safe  at  home,  and  he  was 
out  here,  homeless,  in  the  apple-tree. 

Buck  thought  of  all  this,  but  it  was  no 
use.  The  shadow  slouched  suddenly  and 
disappeared;  and  Buck  was  glad.  With  a 
gritting  oath  between  his  chattering  teeth 
he  pulled  his  pistol  in  and  thrust  one  leg 
down  to  swing  from  the  tree — he  would 
meet  him  face  to  face  next  day  and  kill  him 

[8] 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 

like  a  man — and  there  he  hung  as  rigid  as 
though  the  cold  had  suddenly  turned  him, 
blood,  bones,  and  marrow,  into  ice. 

The  door  had  opened,  and  full  in  the 
firelight  stood  the  girl  who  he  had  heard 
was  dead.  He  knew  now  how  and  why 
that  word  was  sent  him.  And  now  she 
who  had  been  his  sweetheart  stood  before 
him — the  wife  of  the  man  he  meant  to 
kill. 

Her  lips  moved — he  thought  he  could 
tell  what  she  said:  uGit  up,  Jim,  git  up!" 
Then  she  went  back. 

A  flame  flared  up  within  him  now  that 
must  have  come  straight  from  the  devil's 
forge.  Again  the  shadows  played  over  the 
ceiling.  His  teeth  grated  as  he  cocked  his 
pistol,  and  pointed  it  down  the  beam  of 
light  that  shot  into  the  heart  of  the  apple- 
tree,  and  waited. 

[9] 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 

The  shadow  of  a  head  shot  along  the 
rafters  and  over  the  fireplace.  It  was  a 
madman  clutching  the  butt  of  the  pistol 
now,  and  as  his  eye  caught  the  glinting 
sight  and  his  heart  thumped,  there  stepped 
into  the  square  light  of  the  window — a 
child! 

It  was  a  boy  with  yellow  tumbled  hair, 
and  he  had  a  puppy  in  his  arms.  In  front 
of  the  fire  the  little  fellow  dropped  the  dog, 
and  they  began  to  play. 

"Yap!  yap!  yap!" 

Buck  could  hear  the  shrill  barking  of  the 
fat  little  dog,  and  the  joyous  shrieks  of  the 
child  as  he  made  his  playfellow  chase  his 
tail  round  and  round  or  tumbled  him  head 
over  heels  on  the  floor.  It  was  the  first 
child  Buck  had  seen  for  three  years ;  it  was 
his  child  and  hers;  and,  in  the  apple-tree, 
Buck  watched  fixedly. 

[10] 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 

They  were  down  on  the  floor  now,  roll 
ing  over  and  over  together;  and  he  watched 
them  until  the  child  grew  tired  and  turned 
his  face  to  the  fire  and  lay  still — looking 
into  it.  Buck  could  see  his  eyes  close  pres 
ently,  and  then  the  puppy  crept  closer,  put 
his  head  on  his  playmate's  chest,  and  the 
two  lay  thus  asleep. 

And  still  Buck  looked — his  clasp  loosen 
ing  on  his  pistol  and  his  lips  loosening 
under  his  stiff  mustache — and  kept  looking 
until  the  door  opened  again  and  the  woman 
crossed  the  floor.  A  flood  of  light  flashed 
suddenly  on  the  snow,  barely  touching  the 
snow-hung  tips  of  the  apple-tree,  and  he 
saw  her  in  the  doorway — saw  her  look 
anxiously  into  the  darkness — look  and 
listen  a  long  while. 

Buck  dropped  noiselessly  to  the  snow 
when  she  closed  the  door.  He  wondered 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 

what  they  would  think  when  they  saw  his 
tracks  in  the  snow  next  morning;  and  then 
he  realized  that  they  would  be  covered  be 
fore  morning. 

As  he  started  up  the  ravine  where  his 
horse  was  he  heard  the  clink  of  metal  down 
the  road  and  the  splash  of  a  horse's  hoofs 
in  the  soft  mud,  and  he  sank  down  behind 
a  holly-bush. 

Again  the  light  from  the  cabin  flashed 
out  on  the  snow. 

'That  you,  Jim?" 

"Yep!" 

And  then  the  child's  voice:  "Has  oo  dot 
thum  tandy?" 

"Yep!" 

The  cheery  answer  rang  out  almost  at 
Buck's  ear,  and  Jim  passed  death  waiting 
for  him  behind  the  bush  which  his  left  foot 
brushed,  shaking  the  snow  from  the  red 

[12] 


CHRISTMAS    EVE    ON    LONESOME 

berries  down  on  the  crouching  figure  be 
neath. 

Once  only,  far  down  the  dark  jungled 
way,  with  the  underlying  streak  of  yellow 
that  was  leading  him  whither,  God  only 
knew — once  only  Buck  looked  back.  There 
was  the  red  light  gleaming  faintly  through 
the  moonlit  flakes  of  snow.  Once  more  he 
thought  of  the  Star,  and  once  more  the 
chaplain's  voice  came  back  to  him. 

"Mine!"  saith  the  Lord. 

Just  how,  Buck  could  not  see  with  him 
self  in  the  snow  and  him  back  there  for  life 
with  her  and  the  child,  but  some  strange 
impulse  made  him  bare  his  head. 

"Yourn,"  said  Buck  grimly. 

But  nobody  on  Lonesome — not  even 
Buck — knew  that  it  was  Christmas  Eve. 


THE  ARMY  OF  THE  CALLAHAN 


THE  ARMY  OF  THE  CALLAHAN 

I 

THE  dreaded  message  had  come.  The 
lank  messenger,  who  had  brought 
it  from  over  Black  Mountain,  dropped  into 
a  chair  by  the  stove  and  sank  his  teeth  into 
a  great  hunk  of  yellow  cheese.  "Flitter 
Bill"  Richmond  waddled  from  behind  his 
counter,  and  out  on  the  little  platform  in 
front  of  his  cross-roads  store.  Out  there 
was  a  group  of  earth-stained  countrymen, 
lounging  against  the  rickety  fence  or  swing 
ing  on  it,  their  heels  clear  of  the  ground, 
all  whittling,  chewing,  and  talking  the  mat 
ter  over.  All  looked  up  at  Bill,  and  he 
looked  down  at  them,  running  his  eye 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

keenly  from  one  to  another  until  he  came 
to  one  powerful  young  fellow  loosely  bent 
over  a  wagon-tongue.  Even  on  him,  Bill's 
eyes  stayed  but  a  moment,  and  then  were 
lifted  higher  in  anxious  thought. 

The  message  had  come  at  last,  and  the 
man  who  brought  it  had  heard  it  fall  from 
Black  Tom's  own  lips.  The  "wild  Jay- 
Hawkers  of  Kaintuck"  were  coming  over 
into  Virginia  to  get  Flitter  Bill's  store,  for 
they  were  mountain  Unionists  and  Bill  was 
a  valley  rebel  and  lawful  prey.  It  was 
past  belief.  So  long  had  he  prospered, 
and  so  well,  that  Bill  had  come  to  feel  that 
he  sat  safe  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand. 
But  he  now  must  have  protection — and  at 
once — from  the  hand  of  man. 

Roaring  Fork  sang  lustily  through  the 
rhododendrons.  To  the  north  yawned 
"the  Gap"  through  the  Cumberland 
[18] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

Mountains.  "Callahan's  Nose,"  a  huge 
gray  rock,  showed  plain  in  the  clear  air, 
high  above  the  young  foliage,  and  under 
it,  and  on  up  the  rocky  chasm,  flashed 
Flitter  Bill's  keen  mind,  reaching  out  for 
help. 

Now,  from  Virginia  to  Alabama  the 
Southern  mountaineer  was  a  Yankee,  be 
cause  the  national  spirit  of  1776,  getting 
fresh  impetus  in  1812  and  new  life  from 
the  Mexican  War,  had  never  died  out  in 
the  hills.  Most  likely  it  would  never  have 
died  out,  anyway;  for,  the  world  over, 
any  seed  of  character,  individual  or  na 
tional,  that  is  once  dropped  between  lofty 
summits  brings  forth  its  kind,  with  death 
less  tenacity,  year  after  year.  Only,  in 
the  Kentucky  mountains,  there  were  more 
slaveholders  than  elsewhere  in  the  moun 
tains  of  the  South.  These,  naturally, 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

fought  for  their  slaves,  and  the  division 
thus  made  the  war  personal  and  terrible 
between  the  slaveholders  who  dared  to 
stay  at  home,  and  the  Union  "Home 
Guards"  who  organized  to  drive  them 
away.  In  Bill's  little  Virginia  valley,  of 
course,  most  of  the  sturdy  farmers  had 
shouldered  Confederate  muskets  and  gone 
to  the  war.  Those  who  had  stayed  at  home 
were,  like  Bill,  Confederate  in  sympathy, 
but  they  lived  in  safety  down  the  valley, 
while  Bill  traded  and  fattened  just  oppo 
site  the  Gap,  through  which  a  wild  road 
ran  over  into  the  wild  Kentucky  hills. 
Therein  Bill's  danger  lay;  for,  just  at 
this  time,  the  Harlan  Home  Guard  under 
Black  Tom,  having  cleared  those  hills, 
were  making  ready,  like  the  Pict  and  Scot 
of  olden  days,  to  descend  on  the  Virginia 
valley  and  smite  the  lowland  rebels  at 

[20] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

the  mouth  of  the  Gap.  Of  the  "stay-at- 
homes,"  and  the  deserters  roundabout, 
there  were  many,  very  many,  who  would 
"stand  in"  with  any  man  who  would  keep 
their  bellies  full,  but  they  were  well-nigh 
worthless  even  with  a  leader,  and,  without 
a  leader,  of  no  good  at  all.  Flitter  Bill 
must  find  a  leader  for  them,  and  any 
where  than  in  his  own  fat  self,  for  a  leader 
of  men  Bill  was  not  born  to  be,  nor  could 
he  see  a  leader  among  the  men  before 
him.  And  so,  standing  there  one  early 
morning  in  the  spring  of  1865,  with  up 
lifted  gaze,  it  was  no  surprise  to  him — the 
coincidence,  indeed,  became  at  once  one 
of  the  articles  of  perfect  faith  in  his  own 
star — that  he  should  see  afar  off,  a  black 
slouch  hat  and  a  jogging  gray  horse  rise 
above  a  little  knoll  that  was  in  line  with 
the  mouth  of  the  Gap.  At  once  he 

[21] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

crossed  his  hands  over  his  chubby  stom 
ach  with  a  pious  sigh,  and  at  once  a  plan 
of  action  began  to  whirl  in  his  little  round 
head.  Before  man  and  beast  were  in  full 
view  the  work  was  done,  the  hands  were 
unclasped,  and  Flitter  Bill,  with  a  chuckle, 
had  slowly  risen,  and  was  waddling  back 
to  his  desk  in  the  store. 

It  was  a  pompous  old  buck  who  was 
bearing  down  on  the  old  gray  horse,  and 
under  the  slouch  hat  with  its  flapping 
brim — one  Mayhall  Wells,  by  name. 
There  were  but  few  strands  of  gray  in  his 
thick  blue-black  hair,  though  his  years 
were  rounding  half  a  century,  and  he  sat 
the  old  nag  with  erect  dignity  and  perfect 
ease.  His  bearded  mouth  showed  vanity 
immeasurable,  and  suggested  a  strength 
of  will  that  his  eyes — the  real  seat  of 
power — denied,  for,  while  shrewd  and 

[22] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

keen,  they  were  unsteady.  In  reality,  he 
was  a  great  coward,  though  strong  as  an 
ox,  and  whipping  with  ease  every  man 
who  could  force  him  into  a  fight.  So  that, 
in  the  whole  man,  a  sensitive  observer 
would  have  felt  a  peculiar  pathos,  as 
though  nature  had  given  him  a  desire  to 
be,  and  no  power  to  become,  and  had  then 
sent  him  on  his  zigzag  way,  never  to  dream 
wherein  his  trouble  lay. 

"Mornin',  gentlemen !" 

"Mornin',  Mayhall!" 

All  nodded  and  spoke  except  Hence 
Sturgill  on  the  wagon-tongue,  who  stopped 
whittling,  and  merely  looked  at  the  big 
man  with  narrowing  eyes. 

Tallow  Dick,  a  yellow  slave,  appeared 
at  the  corner  of  the  store,  and  the  old  buck 
beckoned  him  to  come  and  hitch  his  horse. 
Flitter  Bill  had  reappeared  on  the  stoop 

[23] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

with  a  piece  of  white  paper  in  his  hand. 
The  lank  messenger  sagged  in  the  door 
way  behind  him,  ready  to  start  for  home. 

"Mornin',  Captain  Wells,"  said  Bill, 
with  great  respect.  Every  man  heard  the 
title,  stopped  his  tongue  and  his  knife- 
blade,  and  raised  his  eyes;  a  few  smiled — 
Hence  Sturgill  grinned.  Mayhall  stared, 
and  Bill's  left  eye  closed  and  opened  with 
lightning  quickness  in  a  most  portentous 
wink.  Mayhall  straightened  his  shoulders 
— seeing  the  game,  as  did  the  crowd  at 
once:  Flitter  Bill  was  impressing  that 
messenger  in  case  he  had  some  dangerous 
card  up  his  sleeve. 

''Captain  Wells,"  Bill  repeated  signifi 
cantly,  "I'm  sorry  to  say  yo'  new  uniform 
has  not  arrived  yet.  I  am  expecting  it 
to-morrow."  Mayhall  toed  the  line  with 
soldierly  promptness. 

[24] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

"Well,  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  suh — 
sorry  to  hear  it,  suh,"  he  said,  with  slow, 
measured  speech.  "My  men  are  comin' 
in  fast,  and  you  can  hardly  realize  er — er 
what  it  means  to  an  old  soldier  er — er  not 
to  have — er — "  And  Mayhall's  answer 
ing  wink  was  portentous. 

"My  friend  here  is  from  over  in  Kain- 
tucky,  and  the  Harlan  Home  Gyard  over 
there,  he  says,  is  a-making  some  threats." 

Mayhall  laughed. 

"So  I  have  heerd — so  I  have  heerd." 
He  turned  to  the  messenger.  "We  shall 
be  ready  fer  'em,  suh,  ready  fer  'em  with 
a  thousand  men — one  thousand  men,  suh, 
right  hyeh  in  the  Gap — right  hyeh  in  the 
Gap.  Let  'em  come  on — let  'em  come 
on!"  Mayhall  began  to  rub  his  hands 
together  as  though  the  conflict  were  close 
at  hand,  and  the  mountaineer  slapped  one 

[25] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

thigh  heartily.  "Good  for  you!  Give 
'em  hell!"  He  was  about  to  slap  May- 
hall  on  the  shoulder  and  call  him  "pard- 
ner,"  when  Flitter  Bill  coughed,  and  May- 
hall  lifted  his  chin. 

"Captain  Wells?"  said  Bill. 

"Captain  Wells,"  repeated  Mayhall 
with  a  stiff  salutation,  and  the  messenger 
from  over  Black  Mountain  fell  back  with 
an  apologetic  laugh.  A  few  minutes  later 
both  Mayhall  and  Flitter  Bill  saw  him 
shaking  his  head,  as  he  started  homeward 
toward  the  Gap.  Bill  laughed  silently, 
but  Mayhall  had  grown  grave.  The  fun 
was  over  and  he  beckoned  Bill  inside  the 
store. 

"Misto  Richmond,"  he  said,  with  hesi 
tancy  and  an  entire  change  of  tone  and 
manner,  "I  am  afeerd  I  ain't  goin'  to 
be  able  to  pay  you  that  little  amount  I 

[26] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

owe  you,  but  if  you  can  give  me  a  little 
mo'  time " 

"Captain  Wells,"  interrupted  Bill  slow 
ly,  and  again  Mayhall  stared  hard  at  him, 
"as  betwixt  friends,  as  have  been  pus- 
sonal  friends  fer  nigh  onto  twenty  year, 
I  hope  you  won't  mention  that  little 
matter  to  me  ag'in — until  I  mentions  it  to 
you." 

"But,  Misto  Richmond,  Hence  Sturgill 
out  thar  says  as  how  he  heerd  you  say 
that  if  I  didn't  pay " 

"Captain  Wells,"  interrupted  Bill  again 
and  again  Mayhall  stared  hard — it  was 
strange  that  Bill  could  have  formed  the 
habit  of  calling  him  "Captain"  in  so  short 
a  time — "yestiddy  is  not  to-day,  is  it? 
And  to-day  is  not  to-morrow?  I  axe  you 
— have  I  said  one  word  about  that  little 
matter  to-day?  Well,  borrow  not  from 

[27] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

yestiddy  nor  to-morrow,  to  make  trouble 
fer  to-day.  There  is  other  things  fer  to 
day,  Captain  Wells." 

Mayhall  turned  here. 

"Misto  Richmond,"  he  said,  with  great 
earnestness,  "you  may  not  know  it,  but 
three  times  since  thet  long-legged  jay- 
hawker's  been  gone  you  hev  plainly — and 
if  my  ears  do  not  deceive  me,  an'  they 
never  hev — you  have  plainly  called  me 
'Captain  Wells/  I  knowed  yo'  little  trick 
whilst  he  was  hyeh,  fer  I  knowed  whut 
the  feller  had  come  to  tell  ye;  but  since  he's 
been  gone,  three  times,  Misto  Rich 
mond " 

"Yes,"  drawled  Bill,  with  an  unction 
that  was  strangely  sweet  to  Mayhall's 
wondering  ears,  aan'  I  do  it  ag'in,  Captain 
Wells." 

"An'  may  I  axe  you,"  said  Mayhall, 

[28] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

ruffling  a  little,  "may  I  axe  you — why 
you " 

"Certainly,"  said  Bill,  and  he  handed 
over  the  paper  that  he  held  in  his  hand. 

Mayhall  took  the  paper  and  looked  it 
up  and  down  helplessly — Flitter  Bill  slyly 
watching  him. 

Mayhall  handed  it  back.  "If  you 
please,  Misto  Richmond — I  left  my  specs 
at  home."  Without  a  smile,  Bill  began. 
It  was  an  order  from  the  commandant  at 
Cumberland  Gap,  sixty  miles  farther  down 
Powell's  Valley,  authorizing  Mayhall 
Wells  to  form  a  company  to  guard  the 
Gap  and  to  protect  the  property  of  Con 
federate  citizens  in  the  valley;  and  a  com 
mission  of  captaincy  in  the  said  company 
for  the  said  Mayhall  Wells.  Mayhall's 
mouth  widened  to  the  full  stretch  of  his 
lean  jaws,  and,  when  Bill  was  through 

[29] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

reading,  he  silently  reached  for  the  paper 
and  looked  it  up  and  down  and  over  and 
over,  muttering: 

"Well— well— well!"  And  then  he 
pointed  silently  to  the  name  that  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  paper. 

Bill  spelled  out  the  name: 

"Jefferson  Davis/'  and  Mayhall's  big 
fingers  trembled  as  he  pulled  them  away, 
as  though  to  avoid  further  desecration  of 
that  sacred  name.  Then  he  rose,  and  a 
magical  transformation  began  that  can 
be  likened — I  speak  with  reverence — to 
the  turning  of  water  into  wine.  Captain 
Mayhall  Wells  raised  his  head,  set  his  chin 
well  in,  and  kept  it  there.  He  straight 
ened  his  shoulders,  and  kept  them  straight. 
He  paced  the  floor  with  a  tread  that  was 
martial,  and  once  he  stopped  before  the 
door  with  his  right  hand  thrust  under  his 

[30] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

breast-pocket,  and  with  wrinkling  brow 
studied  the  hills.  It  was  a  new  man — 
with  the  water  in  his  blood  changed  to 
wine — who  turned  suddenly  on  Flitter  Bill 
Richmond : 

"I  can  collect  a  vehy  large  force  in  a 
vehy  few  days."  Flitter  Bill  knew  that — 
that  he  could  get  together  every  loafer 
between  the  county-seat  of  Wise  and  the 
county-seat  of  Lee — but  he  only  said  en 
couragingly  : 

"Good!" 

"An'  we  air  to  pertect  the  property — 
7  am  to  pertect  the  property  of  the  Con 
federate  citizens  of  the  valley — that  means 
you,  Misto  Richmond,  and  this  store" 

Bill  nodded. 

Mayhall  coughed  slightly.  "There  is 
one  thing  in  the  way,  I  opine.  Whar — I 
axe  you — air  we  to  git  somethin'  to  eat 

[31] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

fer  my  command?"  Bill  had  anticipated 
this. 

"I'll  take  keer  o'  that." 

Captain  Wells  rubbed  his  hands. 

"Of  co'se,  of  co'se — you  are  a  soldier 
and  a  patriot — you  can  afford  to  feed  'em 
as  a  slight  return  fer  the  pertection  I  shall 
give  you  and  yourn." 

"Certainly,"  agreed  Bill  dryly,  and  with 
a  prophetic  stir  of  uneasiness. 

"Vehy — vehy  well.  I  shall  begin  now, 
Misto  Richmond."  And,  to  Flitter  Bill's 
wonder,  the  captain  stalked  out  to  the 
stoop,  announced  his  purpose  with  the 
voice  of  an  auctioneer,  and  called  for 
volunteers  then  and  there.  There  was 
dead  silence  for  a  moment.  Then  there 
was  a  smile  here,  a  chuckle  there,  an 
incredulous  laugh,  and  Hence  Sturgill, 
"bully  of  the  Pocket,"  rose  from  the 
[32] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

wagon-tongue,  closed  his  knife,  came 
slowly  forward,  and  cackled  his  scorn 
straight  up  into  the  teeth  of  Captain  May- 
hall  Wells.  The  captain  looked  down 
and  began  to  shed  his  coat. 

"I  take  it,  Hence  Sturgill,  that  you  air 
laughin'  at  me?" 

"I  am  a-laughin'  at  you,  Mayhall 
Wells,"  he  said,  contemptuously,  but  he 
was  surprised  at  the  look  on  the  good- 
natured  giant's  face. 

"Captain  Mayhall  Wells,  ef  you 
please." 

"Plain  ole  Mayhall  Wells,"  said  Hence, 
and  Captain  Wells  descended  with  no  little 
majesty  and  "biffed"  him. 

The  delighted  crowd  rose  to  its  feet 
and  gathered  around.  Tallow  Dick  came 
running  from  the  barn.  It  was  biff — biff, 
and  biff  again,  but  not  nip  and  tuck  for 

[33] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

long.  Captain  Mayhall  closed  in.  Hence 
Sturgill  struck  the  earth  like  a  Homeric 
pine,  and  the  captain's  mighty  arm  played 
above  him  and  fell,  resounding.  In  three 
minutes  Hence,  to  the  amazement  of  the 
crowd,  roared: 

'"Nough!" 

But  Mayhall  breathed  hard  and  said 
quietly : 

"Captain  Wells!"  Hence  shouted. 

"Plain  ole — "  But  the  captain's  huge 
fist  was  poised  in  the  air  over  his  face. 

"Capt'n  Wells,"  he  growled,  and  the 
captain  rose  and  calmly  put  on  his  coat, 
while  the  crowd  looked  respectful,  and 
Hence  Sturgill  staggered  to  one  side,  as 
though  beaten  in  spirit,  strength,  and  wits 
as  well.  The  captain  beckoned  Flitter  Bill 
inside  the  store.  His  manner  had  a  dis 
tinct  savor  of  patronage. 

[34] 


Captain  Wells  descended  with  no  little  majesty  and  "biffed"  him. 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

"Misto  Richmond,"  he  said,  "I  make 
you — I  appoint  you,  by  the  authority  of 
Jefferson  Davis  and  the  Confederate  States 
of  Ameriky,  as  commissary-gineral  of 
the  Army  of  the  Callahan." 

"As  what?"  Bill's  eyes  blinked  at  the 
astounding  dignity  of  his  commission. 

"Gineral  Richmond,  I  shall  not  repeat 
them  words."  And  he  didn't,  but  rose  and 
made  his  way  toward  his  old  gray  mare. 
Tallow  Dick  held  his  bridle. 

"Dick,"  he  said,  jocosely,  "goin*  to  run 
away  ag'in?"  The  negro  almost  paled, 
and  then,  with  a  look  at  a  blacksnake  whip 
that  hung  on  the  barn  door,  grinned. 

uNo,  suh — no,  suh — 'deed  I  ain't,  suh 


-no  mo'." 


Mounted,  the  captain  dropped  a  three- 
cent  silver  piece  in  the  negro's  startled 
hand.  Then  he  vouchsafed  the  wonder- 

[35] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

ing  Flitter  Bill  and  the  gaping  crowd  a 
military  salute  and  started  for  the  yawning 
mouth  of  the  Gap — riding  with  shoulders 
squared  and  chin  well  in — riding  as  should 
ride  the  commander  of  the  Army  of  the 
Callahan. 

Flitter  Bill  dropped  his  blinking  eyes  to 
the  paper  in  his  hand  that  bore  the  com 
mission  of  Jefferson  Davis  and  the  Con 
federate  States  of  America  to  Mayhall 
Wells  of  Callahan,  and  went  back  into 
his  store.  He  looked  at  it  a  long  time 
and  then  he  laughed,  but  without  much 
mirth. 


[36] 


II 

GRASS  had  little  chance  to  grow  for 
three  weeks  thereafter  under  the  cowhide 
boots  of  Captain  Mayhall  Wells.  When 
the  twentieth  morning  came  over  the  hills, 
the  mists  parted  over  the  Stars  and  Bars 
floating  from  the  top  of  a  tall  poplar  up 
through  the  Gap  and  flaunting  brave  de 
fiance  to  Black  Tom,  his  Harlan  Home 
Guard,  and  all  other  jay-hawking  Union 
ists  of  the  Kentucky  hills.  It  parted  over 
the  Army  of  the  Callahan  asleep  on  its 
arms  in  the  mouth  of  the  chasm,  over  Flit 
ter  Bill  sitting,  sullen  and  dejected,  on  the 
stoop  of  his  store;  and  over  Tallow  Dick 
stealing  corn-bread  from  the  kitchen  to 
make  ready  for  flight  that  night  through 

[37] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

the  Gap,  the  mountains,  and  to  the  yellow 
river  that  was  the  Mecca  of  the  runaway 
slave. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Gap  a  ragged  pri 
vate  stood  before  a  ragged  tent,  raised  a 
long  dinner-horn  to  his  lips,  and  a  mighty 
blast  rang  through  the  hills,  reveille !  And 
out  poured  the  Army  of  the  Callahan  from 
shack,  rock-cave,  and  coverts  of  sticks  and 
leaves,  with  squirrel  rifles,  Revolutionary 
muskets,  shot-guns,  clasp-knives,  and  horse- 
pistols  for  the  duties  of  the  day  under  Lieu 
tenant  Skaggs,  tactician,  and  Lieutenant 
Boggs,  quondam  terror  of  Roaring  Fork. 

That  blast  rang  down  the  valley  into 
Flitter  Bill's  ears  and  startled  him  into  ac 
tion.  It  brought  Tallow  Dick's  head  out 
of  the  barn  door  and  made  him  grin. 

"Dick!"  Flitter  Bill's  call  was  sharp 
and  angry. 

[38] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

"Yes,  suh!" 

"Go  tell  ole  Mayhall  Wells  that  I  ain't 
goin'  to  send  him  nary  another  pound  o' 
bacon  an'  nary  another  tin-cup  o'  meal — 
no,  by ,  I  ain't." 

Half  an  hour  later  the  negro  stood  be 
fore  the  ragged  tent  of  the  commander  of 
the  Army  of  the  Callahan. 

"Marse  Bill  say  he  ain't  gwine  to  sen' 
you  no  mo'  rations — no  mo'." 

"What!" 

Tallow  Dick  repeated  his  message  and 
the  captain  scowled — mutiny! 

"Fetch  my  hoss!"  he  thundered. 

Very  naturally  and  very  swiftly  had  the 
trouble  come,  for  straightway  after  the 
captain's  fight  with  Hence  Sturgill  there 
had  been  a  mighty  rally  to  the  standard 
of  Mayhall  Wells.  From  Pigeon's  Creek 
the  loafers  came — from  Roaring  Fork, 

[39] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

Cracker's  Neck,  from  the  Pocket  down  the 
valley,  and  from  Turkey  Cove.  Recruits 
came  so  fast,  and  to  such  proportions  grew 
the  Army  of  the  Callahan,  that  Flitter  Bill 
shrewdly  suggested  at  once  that  Captain 
Wells  divide  it  into  three  companies  and 
put  one  up  Pigeon's  Creek  under  Lieu 
tenant  Jim  Skaggs  and  one  on  Callahan 
under  Lieutenant  Tom  Boggs,  while  the 
captain,  with  a  third,  should  guard  the 
mouth  of  the  Gap.  Bill's  idea  was  to  share 
with  those  districts  the  honor  of  his  com 
missary-generalship ;  but  Captain  Wells 
crushed  the  plan  like  a  dried  puff-ball. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  fine  sarcasm. 
"What  will  them  Kanetuckians  do  then? 
Don't  you  know,  Gineral  Richmond? 
Why,  I'll  tell  you  what  they'll  do.  They'll 
jest  swoop  down  on  Lieutenant  Boggs  and 
gobble  him  up.  Then  they'll  swoop  down 

[40] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

on  Lieutenant  Skaggs  on  Pigeon  and  gob 
ble  him  up.  Then  they'll  swoop  down  on 
me  and  gobble  me  up.  No,  they  won't 
gobble  me  up,  but  they'll  come  damn  nigh 
it.  An'  what  kind  of  a  report  will  I  make 
to  Jeff  Davis,  Gineral  Richmond?  Cap 
tured  in  detail,  suh?  No,  suh.  I'll  jest 
keep  Lieutenant  Boggs  and  Lieutenant 
Skaggs  close  by  me,  and  we'll  pitch  our 
camp  right  here  in  the  Gap  whar  we  can 
pertect  the  property  of  Confederate  citi 
zens  and  be  close  to  our  base  o'  supplies, 
suh.  That's  what  /'//  do!" 

uGineral"  Richmond  groaned,  and 
when  in  the  next  breath  the  mighty  cap 
tain  casually  inquired  if  that  uniform  of 
his  had  come  yet,  Flitter  Bill's  fat  body 
nearly  rolled  off  his  chair. 

"You  will  please  have  it  here  next  Mon 
day,"  said  the  captain,  with  great  firmness. 

[41] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

"It  is  necessary  to  the  proper  discipline  of 
my  troops."  And  it  was  there  the  follow 
ing  Monday — a  regimental  coat,  gray 
jeans  trousers,  and  a  forage  cap  that  Bill 
purchased  from  a  passing  Morgan  raider. 
Daily,  orders  would  come  from  Captain 
Wells  to  General  Flitter  Bill  Richmond  to 
send  up  more  rations,  and  Bill  groaned 
afresh  when  a  man  from  Callahan  told 
how  the  captain's  family  was  sprucing  up 
on  meal  and  flour  and  bacon  from  the 
captain's  camp.  Humiliation  followed. 
It  had  never  occurred  to  Captain  Wells 
that  being  a  captain  made  it  incongruous 
for  him  to  have  a  "general"  under  him, 
until  Lieutenant  Skaggs,  who  had  picked 
up  a  manual  of  tactics  somewhere,  cau 
tiously  communicated  his  discovery.  Cap 
tain  Wells  saw  the  point  at  once.  There 
was  but  one  thing  to  do — to  reduce  Gen- 

[42] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

eral  Richmond  to  the  ranks — and  it  was 
done.  Technically,  thereafter,  the  general 
was  purveyor  for  the  Army  of  the  Calla- 
han,  but  to  the  captain  himself  he  was — 
gallingly  to  the  purveyor — simple  Flitter 
Bill. 

The  strange  thing  was  that,  contrary  to 
his  usual  shrewdness,  it  should  have  taken 
Flitter  Bill  so  long  to  see  that  the  difference 
between  having  his  store  robbed  by  the 
Kentucky  jay-hawkers  and  looted  by  Cap 
tain  Wells  was  the  difference  between 
tweedle-dum  and  tweedle-dee,  but,  when 
he  did  see,  he  forged  a  plan  of  relief  at 
once.  When  the  captain  sent  down  Lieu 
tenant  Boggs  for  a  supply  of  rations,  Bill 
sent  the  saltiest,  rankest  bacon  he  could 
find,  with  a  message  that  he  wanted  to  see 
the  great  man.  As  before,  when  Captain 
Wells  rode  down  to  the  store,  Bill  handed 

[43] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

out  a  piece  of  paper,  and,  as  before,  the 
captain  had  left  his  "specs"  at  home.  The 
paper  was  an  order  that,  whereas  the  dis 
tinguished  services  of  Captain  Wells  to 
the  Confederacy  were  appreciated  by  Jef 
ferson  Davis,  the  said  Captain  Wells  was, 
and  is,  hereby  empowered  to  duly,  and  in 
accordance  with  the  tactics  of  war,  impress 
what  live-stock  he  shall  see  fit  and  deter 
mine  fit  for  the  good  of  his  command.  The 
news  was  joy  to  the  Army  of  the  Callahan. 
Before  it  had  gone  the  rounds  of  the  camp 
Lieutenant  Boggs  had  spied  a  fat  heifer 
browsing  on  the  edge  of  the  woods  and 
ordered  her  surrounded  and  driven  down. 
Without  another  word,  when  she  was  close 
enough,  he  raised  his  gun  and  would  have 
shot  her  dead  in  her  tracks  had  he  not  been 
arrested  by  a  yell  of  command  and  horror 
from  his  superior. 

[44] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

"Air  you  a-goin'  to  have  me  cashiered 
and  shot,  Lieutenant  Boggs,  fer  violatin* 
the  ticktacks  of  war?"  roared  the  cap 
tain,  indignantly.  "Don't  you  know  that 
IVe  got  to  impress  that  heifer  accordin' 
to  the  rules  an'  regulations?  Git  roun' 
that  heifer."  The  men  surrounded  her. 
"Take  her  by  the  horns.  Now!  In  the 
name  of  Jefferson  Davis  and  the  Confed 
erate  States  of  Ameriky,  I  hereby  and  here- 
on  do  duly  impress  this  heifer  for  the  pur 
poses  and  use  of  the  Army  of  the  Callahan, 
so  help  me  God!  Shoot  her  down,  Bill 
Boggs,  shoot  her  down !" 

Now,  naturally,  the  soldiers  preferred 
fresh  meat,  and  they  got  it — impressing 
cattle,  sheep,  and  hogs,  geese,  chickens, 
and  ducks,  vegetables — nothing  escaped 
the  capacious  maw  of  the  Army  of  the 
Callahan.  It  was  a  beautiful  idea,  and 

[45] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

the  success  of  it  pleased  Flitter  Bill  might 
ily,  but  the  relief  did  not  last  long.  An 
indignant  murmur  rose  up  and  down  val 
ley  and  creek  bottom  against  the  outrages, 
and  one  angry  old  farmer  took  a  pot-shot 
at  Captain  Wells  with  a  squirrel  rifle, 
clipping  the  visor  of  his  forage  cap;  and 
from  that  day  the  captain  began  to  call 
with  immutable  regularity  again  on  Flitter 
Bill  for  bacon  and  meal.  That  morning 
the  last  straw  fell  in  a  demand  for  a  wagon- 
load  of  rations  to  be  delivered  before 
noon,  and,  worn  to  the  edge  of  his  patience, 
Bill  had  sent  a  reckless  refusal.  And  now 
he  was  waiting  on  the  stoop  of  his  store, 
looking  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gap  and  wait 
ing  for  it  to  give  out  into  the  valley  Cap 
tain  Wells  and  his  old  gray  mare.  And 
at  last,  late  in  the  afternoon,  there  was  the 
captain  coming — coming  at  a  swift  gallop 

[46] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

— and  Bill  steeled  himself  for  the  on 
slaught  like  a  knight  in  a  joust  against  a 
charging  antagonist.  The  captain  saluted 
stiffly — pulling  up  sharply  and  making  no 
move  to  dismount. 

"Purveyor,"  he  said,  "Black  Tom  has 
just  sent  word  that  he's  a-comin'  over 
hyeh  this  week — have  you  heerd  that, 
purveyor?"  Bill  was  silent. 

"Black  Tom  says  you  air  responsible 
for  the  Army  of  the  Callahan.  Have  you 
heerd  that,  purveyor?"  Still  was  there 
silence. 

"He  says  he's  a-goin'  to  hang  me  to 
that  poplar  whar  floats  them  Stars  and 
Bars" — Captain  Mayhall  Wells  chuckled 
— "an'  he  says  he's  a-goin'  to  hang  you 
thar  fust,  though;  have  you  heerd  that, 
purveyor?" 

The  captain  dropped  the  titular  address 

[47] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

now,  and  threw  one  leg  over  the  pommel 
of  his  saddle. 

"Flitter  Bill  Richmond,"  he  said,  with 
great  nonchalance,  "I  axe  you — do  you  pre 
fer  that  I  should  disband  the  Army  of  the 
Callahan,  or  do  you  not?" 

"No." 

The  captain  was  silent  a  full  minute,  and 
his  face  grew  stern.  "Flitter  Bill  Rich 
mond,  I  had  no  idee  o'  disbandin'  the 
Army  of  the  Callahan,  but  do  you  know 
what  I  did  aim  to  do?"  Again  Bill  was 
silent. 

"Well,  suh,  I'll  tell  you  whut  I  aim  to 
do.  If  you  don't  send  them  rations  I'll 
have  you  cashiered  for  mutiny,  an'  if 
Black  Tom  don't  hang  you  to  that  air  pop 
lar,  I'll  hang  you  thar  myself,  suh ;  yes,  by 

,  I  will.  Dick!"  he  called  sharply  to 

the  slave.  "Hitch  up  that  air  wagon, 

[48] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

fill  hit  full  o'  bacon  and  meal,  and  drive 
it  up  thar  to  my  tent.  An'  be  mighty 
damn  quick  about  it,  or  I'll  hang  you, 
too." 

The  negro  gave  a  swift  glance  to  his 
master,  and  Flitter  Bill  feebly  waved  ac 
quiescence. 

"Purveyor,  I  wish  you  good-day." 
Bill   gazed  after  the   great  captain   in 
dazed  wonder  (was  this  the  man  who  had 
come  cringing  to  him  only  a   few  short 
weeks  ago?)  and  groaned  aloud. 

But  for  lucky  or  unlucky  coincidence, 
how  could  the  prophet  ever  have  gained 
name  and  fame  on  earth? 

Captain  Wells  rode  back  to  camp 
chuckling — chuckling  with  satisfaction 
and  pride;  but  the  chuckle  passed  when 
he  caught  sight  of  his  tent.  In  front  of 

[49] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

it  were  his  lieutenants  and  some  half  a 
dozen  privates,  all  plainly  in  great  agita 
tion,  and  in  the  midst  of  them  stood  the 
lank  messenger  who  had  brought  the  first 
message  from  Black  Tom,  delivering  an 
other  from  the  same  source.  Black  Tom 
was  coming,  coming  sure,  and  unless  that 
flag,  that  "Rebel  Rag,"  were  hauled  down 
under  twenty-four  hours,  Black  Tom  would 
come  over  and  pull  it  down,  and  to  that 
same  poplar  hang  "Captain  Mayhall  an* 
his  whole  damn  army."  Black  Tom  might 
do  it  anyhow — just  for  fun. 

While  the  privates  listened  the  captain 
strutted  and  swore ;  then  he  rested  his  hand 
on  his  hip  and  smiled  with  silent  sarcasm, 
and  then  swore  again — while  the  respect 
ful  lieutenants  and  the  awed  soldiery  of 
the  Callahan  looked  on.  Finally  he 
spoke. 

[50] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

"Ah— when  did  Black  Tom  say  that?" 
he  inquired  casually. 

"Yestiddy  mornin'.  He  said  he  was 
gbin'  to  start  over  hyeh  early  this  mornin'." 
The  captain  whirled. 

"What?  Then  why  didn't  you  git  over 
hyeh  this  mornin'?" 

"Couldn't  git  across  the  river  last 
night." 

"Then  he's  a-comin'  to-day?" 

"I  reckon  Black  Tom'll  be  hyeh  in 
about  two  hours — mebbe  he  ain't  fer  away 
now."  The  captain  was  startled. 

Lieutenant  Skaggs,"  he  called,  sharply, 
"git  yo'  men  out  thar  an'  draw  'em  up  in 
two  rows!" 

The  face  of  the  student  of  military  tac 
tics  looked  horrified.  The  captain  in  his 
excitement  had  relaxed  into  language  that 
was  distinctly  agricultural,  and,  catching 

[51] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

the  look  on  his  subordinate's  face,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  reason  for  it,  he  roared, 
indignantly : 

"Air  you  afeer'd,  sir?  Git  yo'  men  out, 
I  said,  an'  march  'em  up  thar  in  front  of 
the  Gap.  Lieutenant  Boggs,  take  ten  men 
an'  march  at  double  quick  through  the 
Gap,  an'  defend  that  poplar  with  yo'  life's 
blood.  If  you  air  overwhelmed  by  supe 
rior  numbers,  fall  back,  suh,  step  by  step 
until  you  air  re-enforced  by  Lieutenant 
Skaggs.  If  you  two  air  not  able  to  hold 
the  enemy  in  check,  you  may  count  on  me 
an'  the  Army  of  the  Callahan  to  grind 
him — "  (How  the  captain,  now  thorough 
ly  aroused  to  all  the  fine  terms  of  war,  did 
roll  that  technical  uhim"  under  his  tongue) 
— "to  grind  him  to  pieces  ag'in  them  tow- 
erin'  rocks,  and  plunge  him  in  the  bilin' 
waters  of  Roarin'  Fawk.  Forward,  suh — 

[52] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

double  quick."  Lieutenant  Skaggs  touched 
his  cap.  Lieutenant  Boggs  looked  embar 
rassed  and  strode  nearer. 

"Captain,  whar  am  I  goin'  to  git  ten 
men  to  face  them  Kanetuckians?" 

uWhar  air  they  goin'  to  git  a  off'cer  to 
lead  'em,  you'd  better  say,"  said  the  cap 
tain,  severely,  fearing  that  some  of  the  sol 
diers  had  heard  the  question.  "If  you  air 
afeer'd,  suh" — and  then  he  saw  that  no 
one  had  heard,  and  he  winked — winked 
with  most  unmilitary  familiarity. 

"Air  you  a  good  climber,  Lieutenant 
Boggs?"  Lieutenant  Boggs  looked  mys 
tified,  but  he  said  he  was. 

"Lieutenant  Boggs,  I  now  give  you  the 
opportunity  to  show  yo'  profound  knowl 
edge  of  the  ticktacks  of  war.  You  may 
now  be  guilty  of  disobedience  of  ordahs, 
and  I  will  not  have  you  court-martialled  for 

[53] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

the  same.  In  other  words,  if,  after  a  sur 
vey  of  the  situation,  you  think  best — why," 
the  captain's  voice  dropped  to  a  hoarse 
whisper,  "pull  that  flag  down,  Lieutenant 
Boggs,  pull  her  down.5' 


[54] 


Ill 


IT  was  an  hour  by  sun  now.  Lieutenant 
Boggs  and  his  devoted  band  of  ten  were 
making  their  way  slowly  and  watchfully 
up  the  mighty  chasm — the  lieutenant  with 
his  hand  on  his  sword  and  his  head  bare, 
and  bowed  in  thought.  The  Kentuckians 
were  on  their  way — at  that  moment  they 
might  be  riding  full  speed  toward  the 
mouth  of  Pigeon,  where  floated  the  flag. 
They  might  gobble  him  and  his  command 
up  when  they  emerged  from  the  Gap.  Sup 
pose  they  caught  him  up  that  tree.  His 
command  might  escape,  but  he  would  be 
up  there,  saving  them  the  trouble  of  string- 

[55] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

ing  him  up.  All  they  would  have  to  do 
would  be  to  send  up  after  him  a  man  with 
a  rope,  and  let  him  drop.  That  was 
enough.  Lieutenant  Boggs  called  a  halt 
and  explained  the  real  purpose  of  the  ex 
pedition. 

"We  will  wait  here  till  dark,"  he  said, 
uso  them  Kanetuckians  can't  ketch  us, 
whilst  we  are  climbing  that  tree/' 

And  so  they  waited  opposite  Bee  Rock, 
which  was  making  ready  to  blossom  with 
purple  rhododendron.  And  the  reserve 
back  in  the  Gap,  under  Lieutenant  Skaggs, 
waited.  Waited,  too,  the  Army  of  the 
Callahan  at  the  mouth  of  the  Gap,  and 
waited  restlessly  Captain  Wells  at  the  door 
of  his  tent,  and  Flitter  Bill  on  the  stoop 
of  his  store — waited  everybody  but  Tallow 
Dick,  who,  in  the  general  confusion,  was 
slipping  through  the  rhododendrons  along 

[56] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

the  bank  of  Roaring  Fork,  until  he  could 
climb  the  mountain-side  and  slip  through 
the  Gap  high  over  the  army's  head. 

What  could  have  happened? 

When  dusk  was  falling,  Captain  Wells 
dispatched  a  messenger  to  Lieutenant 
Skaggs  and  his  reserve,  and  got  an  answer ; 
Lieutenant  Skaggs  feared  that  Boggs  had 
been  captured  without  the  firing  of  a  single 
shot — but  the  flag  was  floating  still.  An 
hour  later,  Lieutenant  Skaggs  sent  another 
message — he  could  not  see  the  flag.  Cap 
tain  Wells  answered,  stoutly: 
'  "Hold  yo'  own." 

And  so,  as  darkness  fell,  the  Army  of 
the  Callahan  waited  in  the  strain  of  mortal 
expectancy  as  one  man;  and  Flitter  Bill 
waited,  with  his  horse  standing  saddled  in 
the  barn,  ready  for  swift  flight.  And,  as 
darkness  fell,  Tallow  Dick  was  cautiously 

[57] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

picking  his  way  alongside  the  steep  wall 
of  the  Gap  toward  freedom,  and  picking 
it  with  stealthy  caution,  foot  by  foot;  for 
up  there,  to  this  day,  big  loose  rocks  mount 
half  way  to  the  jagged  points  of  the  black 
cliffs,  and  a  careless  step  would  have  de 
tached  one  and  sent  an  avalanche  of  rum 
bling  stones  down  to  betray  him.  A  single 
shot  rang  suddenly  out  far  up  through  the 
Gap,  and  the  startled  negro  sprang  for 
ward,  slipped,  and,  with  a  low,  frightened 
oath,  lay  still.  Another  shot  followed, 
and  another.  Then  a  hoarse  murmur  rose, 
loudened  into  thunder,  and  ended  in  a 
frightful — boom !  One  yell  rang  from  the 
army's  throat: 

"The  Kentuckians!  The  Kentuckians! 
The  wild,  long-haired,  terrible  Kentuck 
ians!" 

Captain  Wells  sprang  into  the  air. 

[58] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

uMy  God,  they've  got  a  cannon!" 

Then  there  was  a  martial  chorus — the 
crack  of  rifle,  the  hoarse  cough  of  horse- 
pistol,  the  roar  of  old  muskets. 

"Bing!  Bang!  Boom!  Bing — bing! 
Bang — bang !  Boom — boom !  Bing — 
bang — boom  I" 

Lieutenant  Skaggs  and  his  reserves 
heard  the  beat  of  running  feet  down  the 
Gap. 

"They've  gobbled  Boggs,"  he  said,  and 
the  reserve  rushed  after  him  as  he  fled. 
The  army  heard  the  beat  of  their  coming 
feet. 

"They've  gobbled  Skaggs,"  the  army 
said. 

Then  was  there  bedlam  as  the  army  fled 
— a  crashing  through  bushes — a  splashing 
into  the  river,  the  rumble  of  mule-wagons, 
yells  of  terror,  swift  flying  shapes  through 

[59] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

the  pale  moonlight.  Flitter  Bill  heard  the 
din  as  he  stood  by  his  barn  door. 

"They've  gobbled  the  army,"  said  Flit 
ter  Bill,  and  he,  too,  fled  like  a  shadow 
down  the  valley. 

Nature  never  explodes  such  wild  and 
senseless  energy  as  when  she  lets  loose  a 
mob  in  a  panic.  With  the  army,  it  was 
each  man  for  himself  and  devil  take  the 
hindmost;  and  the  flight  of  the  army  was 
like  a  flight  from  the  very  devil  himself. 
Lieutenant  Boggs,  whose  feet  were  the 
swiftest  in  the  hills,  outstripped  his  devoted 
band.  Lieutenant  Skaggs,  being  fat  and 
slow,  fell  far  behind  his  reserve,  and 
dropped  exhausted  on  a  rock  for  a  moment 
to  get  his  breath.  As  he  rose,  panting,  to 
resume  flight,  a  figure  bounded  out  of  the 
darkness  behind  him,  and  he  gathered  it 
in  silently  and  went  with  it  to  the  ground, 

[60] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

where  both  fought  silently  in  the  dust  until 
they  rolled  into  the  moonlight  and  each 
looked  the  other  in  the  face. 

"That  you,  Jim  Skaggs?" 

"That  you,  Tom  Boggs?" 

Then  the  two  lieutenants  rose  swiftly, 
but  a  third  shape  bounded  into  the  road — 
a  gigantic  figure — Black  Tom!  With  a 
startled  yell  they  gathered  him  in — one 
by  the  waist,  the  other  about  the  neck, 
and,  for  a  moment,  the  terrible  Kentuckian 
— it  could  be  none  other — swung  the  two 
clear  of  the  ground,  but  the  doughty  lieu 
tenants  hung  to  him.  Boggs  trying  to  get 
his  knife  and  Skaggs  his  pistol,  and  all  went 
down  in  a  heap. 

"I  surrender — I  surrender  I"  It  was  the 
giant  who  spoke,  and  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice  both  men  ceased  the  struggle,  and, 
strange  to  say,  no  one  of  the  three  laughed. 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

"Lieutenant  Boggs,"  said  Captain 
Wells,  thickly,  "take  yo'  thumb  out  o'  my 
mouth.  Lieutenant  Skaggs,  leggo  my  leg 
an'  stop  bitin'  me." 

«Sh— sh— sh— "  said  all  three. 

The  faint  swish  of  bushes  as  Lieutenant 
Boggs's  ten  men  scuttled  into  the  brush 
behind  them — the  distant  beat  of  the 
army's  feet  getting  fainter  ahead  of  them, 
and  then  silence — dead,  dead  silence. 

"Sh— sh— sh!" 

*  *  *  *  * 

"With  the  red  streaks  of  dawn  Captain 
Mayhall  Wells  was  pacing  up  and  down 
in  front  of  Flitter  Bill's  store,  a  gaping 
crowd  about  him,  and  the  shattered  rem 
nants  of  the  army  drawn  up  along  Roar 
ing  Fork  in  the  rear.  An  hour  later  Flitter 
Bill  rode  calmly  in. 

"I  stayed  all  night  down  the  valley," 

[62] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

said  Flitter  Bill.  "Uncle  Jim  Richmond 
was  sick.  I  hear  you  had  some  trouble 
last  night,  Captain  Wells."  The  captain 
expanded  his  chest. 

"Trouble!"  he  repeated,  sarcastically. 
And  then  he  told  how  a  charging  horde 
of  dare-devils  had  driven  him  from  camp 
with  overwhelming  numbers  and  one  piece 
of  artillery;  how  he  had  rallied  the  army 
and  fought  them  back,  foot  by  foot,  and 
put  them  to  fearful  rout;  how  the  army 
had  fallen  back  again  just  when  the  Ken- 
tuckians  were  running  like  sheep,  and  how 
he  himself  had  stayed  in  the  rear  with  Lieu 
tenant  Boggs  and  Lieutenant  Skaggs,  "to 
cover  their  retreat,  suh,"  and  how  the  pur 
veyor,  if  he  would  just  go  up  through  the 
Gap,  would  doubtless  find  the  cannon  that 
the  enemy  had  left  behind  in  their  flight. 
It  was  just  while  he  was  thus  telling  the 

[63] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

tale  for  the  twentieth  time  that  two  figures 
appeared  over  the  brow  of  the  hill  and 
drew  near — Hence  Sturgill  on  horseback 
and  Tallow  Dick  on  foot. 

"I  ketched  this  nigger  in  my  corn-fiel' 
this  mornin',"  said  Hence,  simply,  and 
Flitter  Bill  glared,  and  without  a  word 
went  for  the  blacksnake  ox-whip  that  hung 
by  the  barn  door. 

For  the  twenty-first  time  Captain  Wells 
started  his  tale  again,  and  with  every  pause 
that  he  made  for  breath  Hence  cackled 
scorn. 

"An',  Hence  Sturgill,  ef  you  will  jus'  go 
up  in  the  Gap  you'll  find  a  cannon,  cap 
tured,  suh,  by  me  an'  the  Army  of  the  Calla- 
han,  an' " 

"Cannon !"  Hence  broke  in.  "Speak  up, 
nigger!"  And  Tallow  Dick  spoke  up — • 
grinning : 

[64] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

"I  done  it!" 

"What!"  shouted  Flitter  Bill. 

"I  kicked  a  rock  loose  climbin*  over 
Callahan's  nose." 

Bill  dropped  his  whip  with  a  chuckle  of 
pure  ecstasy.  Mayhall  paled  and  stared. 
The  crowd  roared,  the  Army  of  the  Calla- 
han  grinned,  and  Hence  climbed  back  on 
his  horse. 

"Mayhall  Wells,"  he  said,  "plain  ole 
Mayhall  Wells,  I'll  see  you  on  Couht  Day. 
I  ain't  got  time  now." 

And  he  rode  away. 


[65] 


IV 


THAT  day  Captain  Mayhall  Wells  and 
the  Army  of  the  Callahan  were  in  disre 
pute.  Next  day  the  awful  news  of  Lee's 
surrender  came.  Captain  Wells  refused  to 
believe  it,  and  still  made  heroic  effort  to 
keep  his  shattered  command  together. 
Looking  for  recruits  on  Court  Day,  he 
was  twitted  about  the  rout  of  the  army  by 
Hence  Sturgill,  whose  long-coveted  chance 
to  redeem  himself  had  come.  Again,  as 
several  times  before,  the  captain  declined 
to  fight — his  health  was  essential  to  the 
general  well-being — but  Hence  laughed  in 
his  face,  and  the  captain  had  to  face  the 
music,  though  the  heart  of  him  was  gone. 

He  fought  well,  for  he  was  fighting  for 
[66] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

his  all,  and  he  knew  it.  He  could  have 
whipped  with  ease,  and  he  did  whip,  but 
the  spirit  of  the  thoroughbred  was  not  in 
Captain  Mayhall  Wells.  He  had  Sturgill 
down,  but  Hence  sank  his  teeth  into  May- 
hall's  thigh  while  MayhalFs  hands  grasped 
his  opponent's  throat.  The  captain  had 
only  to  squeeze,  as  every  rough-and-tumble 
fighter  knew,  and  endure  his  pain  until 
Hence  would  have  to  give  in.  But  May- 
hall  was  not  built  to  endure.  He  roared 
like  a  bull  as  soon  as  the  teeth  met  in 
his  flesh,  his  fingers  relaxed,  and  to  the 
disgusted  surprise  of  everybody  he  be 
gan  to  roar  with  great  distinctness  and 
agony : 

"'Nough!    'Nough!" 

The  end  was  come,  and  nobody  knew 
it  better  than  Mayhall  Wells.  He  rode 
home  that  night  with  hands  folded  on  the 

[67] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

pommel  of  his  saddle  and  his  beard 
crushed  by  his  chin  against  his  breast. 
For  the  last  time,  next  morning  he  rode 
down  to  Flitter  Bill's  store.  On  the  way 
he  met  Parson  Kilburn  and  for  the  last 
time  Mayhall  Wells  straightened  his  shoul 
ders  and  for  one  moment  more  resumed 
his  part:  perhaps  the  parson  had  not 
heard  of  his  fall. 

"Good-mornin',  parsing,"  he  said,  pleas 
antly.  "Ah — where  have  you  been?"  The 
parson  was  returning  from  Cumberland 
Gap,  whither  he  had  gone  to  take  the  oath 
of  allegiance. 

"By  the  way,  I  have  something  here  for 
you  which  Flitter  Bill  asked  me  to  give 
you.  He  said  it  was  from  the  commandant 
at  Cumberland  Gap." 

"Fer  me?"  asked  the  captain — hope 
springing  anew  in  his  heart.  The  parson 
[68] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

handed  him  a  letter.  Mayhall  looked  at 
it  upside  down. 

"If  you  please,  parsing,"  he  said,  hand 
ing  it  back,  "I  hev  left  my  specs  at 
home." 

The  parson  read  that,  whereas  Captain 
Wells  had  been  guilty  of  grave  misde 
meanors  while  in  command  of  the  Army 
of  the  Callahan,  he  should  be  arrested  and 
court-martialled  for  the  same,  or  be  given 
the  privilege  of  leaving  the  county  in 
twenty-four  hours.  MayhalFs  face  paled 
a  little  and  he  stroked  his  beard. 

"Ah — does  anybody  but  you  know  about 
this  ordah,  parsing?" 

"Nobody." 

"Well,  if  you  will  do  me  the  great  favor, 
parsing,  of  not  mentioning  it  to  nary  a 
living  soul — as  fer  me  and  my  ole  gray 
hoss  and  my  household  furniture — we'll  be 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

in  Kanetuck  afore  daybreak  to-morrow 
mornin' !"  And  he  was. 

But  he  rode  on  just  then  and  presented 
himself  for  the  last  time  at  the  store  of 
Flitter  Bill.  Bill  was  sitting  on  the  stoop 
in  his  favorite  posture.  And  in  a  moment 
there  stood  before  him  plain  Mayhall 
Wells — holding  out  the  order  Bill  had 
given  the  parson  that  day. 

uMisto  Richmond,"  he  said,  "I  have 
come  to  tell  you  good-by." 

Now  just  above  the  selfish  layers  of  fat 
under  Flitter  Bill's  chubby  hands  was  a 
very  kind  heart.  When  he  saw  Mayhall's 
old  manner  and  heard  the  old  respectful 
way  of  address,  and  felt  the  dazed  help 
lessness  of  the  big  beaten  man,  the  heart 
thumped. 

"I  am  sorry  about  that  little  amount  I 
owe  you;  I  think  I'll  be  able  shortly — " 

[70] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

But  Bill  cut  him  short.  Mayhall  Wells, 
beaten,  disgraced,  driven  from  home  on 
charge  of  petty  crimes,  of  which  he  was 
undoubtedly  guilty,  but  for  which  Bill 
knew  he  himself  was  responsible — May- 
hall  on  his  way  into  exile  and  still  persuad 
ing  himself  and,  at  that  moment,  almost 
persuading  him  that  he  meant  to  pay  that 
little  debt  of  long  ago — was  too  much  for 
Flitter  Bill,  and  he  proceeded  to  lie — lying 
with  deliberation  and  pleasure. 

"Captain  Wells,"  he  said — and  the  em 
phasis  on  the  title  was  balm  to  Mayhall's 
soul — uyou  have  protected  me  in  time  of 
war,  an'  you  air  welcome  to  yo'  uniform 
an'  you  air  welcome  to  that  little  debt. 
Yes,"  he  went  on,  reaching  down  into  his 
pocket  and  pulling  out  a  roll  of  bills,  "I 
tender  you  in  payment  for  that  same  pro 
tection  the  regular  pay  of  a  officer  in  the 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

Confederate  service" — and  he  handed  out 
the  army  pay  for  three  months  in  Confed 
erate  greenbacks — "an'  five  dollars  in 
money  of  the  United  States,  of  which  I 
an',  doubtless,  you,  suh,  air  true  and  loyal 
citizens.  Captain  Wells,  I  bid  you  good- 
by  an'  I  wish  ye  well — I  wish  ye  well." 

From  the  stoop  of  his  store  Bill  watched 
the  captain  ride  away,  drooping  at  the 
shoulders,  and  with  his  hands  folded  on 
the  pommel  of  his  saddle — his  dim  blue 
eyes  misty,  the  jaunty  forage  cap  a  mock 
ery  of  his  iron-gray  hair,  and  the  flaps  of 
his  coat  fanning  either  side  like  mournful 
wings. 

And  Flitter  Bill  muttered  to  himself: 
"Atter  he's  gone  long  enough  fer  these 
things  to  blow  over,  I'm  going  to  bring  him 
back  and  give  him  another  chance — yes, 
damme  if  I  don't  git  him  back." 

[72] 


THE    ARMY    OF    THE    CALLAHAN 

And  Bill  dropped  his  remorseful  eye  to 
the  order  in  his  hand.  Like  the  hand 
writing  of  the  order  that  lifted  Mayhall 
like  magic  into  power,  the  handwriting  of 
this  order,  that  dropped  him  like  a  stone — 
was  Flitter  Bill's  own. 


[73] 


THE   LAST   STETSON 


THE   LAST   STETSON 


A  MIDSUMMER  freshet  was  run 
ning  over  old  Gabe  Bunch's  water- 
wheel  into  the  Cumberland.  Inside  the 
mill  Steve  Marcum  lay  in  one  dark  corner 
with  a  slouched  hat  over  his  face.  The 
boy  Isom  was  emptying  a  sack  of  corn  into 
the  hopper.  Old  Gabe  was  speaking  his 
mind. 

Always  the  miller  had  been  a  man  of 
peace;  and  there  was  one  time  when  he 
thought  the  old  Stetson-Lewallen  feud  was 
done.  That  was  when  Rome  Stetson,  the 
last  but  one  of  his  name,  and  Jasper  Lewal- 
len,  the  last  but  one  of  his,  put  their  guns 
down  and  fought  with  bare  fists  on  a  high 
[77] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


ledge  above  old  Gabe's  mill  one  morning 
at  daybreak.  The  man  who  was  beaten 
was  to  leave  the  mountains ;  the  other  was 
to  stay  at  home  and  have  peace.  Steve 
Marcum,  a  Stetson,  heard  the  sworn  terms 
and  saw  the  fight.  Jasper  was  fairly 
whipped;  and  when  Rome  let  him  up  he 
proved  treacherous  and  ran  for  his  gun. 
Rome  ran  too,  but  stumbled  and  fell. 
Jasper  whirled  with  his  Winchester  and 
was  about  to  kill  Rome  where  he  lay,  when 
a  bullet  came  from  somewhere  and  dropped 
him  back  to  the  ledge  again.  Both  Steve 
Marcum  and  Rome  Stetson  said  they  had 
not  fired  the  shot;  neither  would  say  who 
had.  Some  thought  one  man  was  lying, 
some  thought  the  other  was,  and  Jasper's 
death  lay  between  the  two.  State  troops 
came  then,  under  the  Governor's  order, 
from  the  Blue  Grass,  and  Rome  had  to 

[78] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


drift  down  the  river  one  night  in  old  Gabe's 
canoe  and  on  out  of  the  mountains  for 
good.  Martha  Lewallen,  who,  though 
Jasper's  sister,  and  the  last  of  the  name, 
loved  and  believed  Rome,  went  with  him. 
Marcums  and  Braytons  who  had  taken 
sides  in  the  fight  hid  in  the  bushes  around 
Hazlan,  or  climbed  over  into  Virginia.  A 
railroad  started  up  the  Cumberland. 
"Furriners"  came  in  to  buy  wild  lands  and 
get  out  timber.  Civilization  began  to  press 
over  the  mountains  and  down  on  Hazlan, 
as  it  had  pressed  in  on  Breathitt,  the  seat 
of  another  feud,  in  another  county.  In 
Breathitt  the  feud  was  long  past,  and  with 
good  reason  old  Gabe  thought  that  it  was 
done  in  Hazlan. 

But  that  autumn  a  panic  started  over 
from  England.  It  stopped  the  railroad  far 
down  the  Cumberland;  it  sent  the  ufurri- 

[79] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


ners"  home,  and  drove  civilization  back. 
Marcums  and  Braytons  came  in  from  hid 
ing,  and  drifted  one  by  one  to  the  old  fight 
ing-ground.  In  time  they  took  up  the  old 
quarrel,  and  with  Steve  Marcum  and  Steve 
Brayton  as  leaders,  the  old  Stetson-Lewal- 
len  feud  went  on,  though  but  one  soul  was 
left  in  the  mountains  of  either  name. 
That  was  Isom,  a  pale  little  fellow  whom 
Rome  had  left  in  old  Gabe's  care ;  and  he, 
though  a  Stetson  and  a  half-brother  to 
Rome,  was  not  counted,  because  he  was 
only  a  boy  and  a  foundling,  and  because 
his  ways  were  queer. 

There  was  no  open  rupture,  no  organized 
division — that  might  happen  no  more. 
The  mischief  was  individual  now,  and  am 
bushing  was  more  common.  Certain  men 
were  looking  for  each  other,  and  it  was  a 
question  of  "drawin'  quick  V  shootin' 

[so] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


quick"  when  the  two  met  by  accident,  or 
of  getting  the  advantage  "from  the  bresh." 

In  time  Steve  Marcum  had  come  face  to 
face  with  old  Steve  Brayton  in  Hazlan, 
and  the  two  Steves,  as  they  were  known, 
drew  promptly.  Marcum  was  in  the  dust 
when  the  smoke  cleared  away;  and  now, 
after  three  months  in  bed,  he  was  just  out 
again.  He  had  come  down  to  the  mill  to 
see  Isom.  This  was  the  miller's  first  chance 
for  remonstrance,  and,  as  usual,  he  began 
to  lay  it  down  that  every  man  who  had 
taken  a  human  life  must  sooner  or  later 
pay  for  it  with  his  own.  It  was  an  old 
story  to  Isom,  and,  with  a  shake  of  impa 
tience,  he  turned  out  the  door  of  the  mill, 
and  left  old  Gabe  droning  on  under  his 
dusty  hat  to  Steve,  who,  being  heavy  with 
moonshine,  dropped  asleep. 

Outside  the  sun  was  warm,  the  flood  was 
[81] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


calling  from  the  dam,  and  the  boy's  petu 
lance  was  gone  at  once.  For  a  moment  he 
stood  on  the  rude  platform  watching  the 
tide;  then  he  let  one  bare  foot  into  the 
water,  and,  with  a  shiver  of  delight, 
dropped  from  the  boards.  In  a  moment 
his  clothes  were  on  the  ground  behind  a 
laurel  thicket,  and  his  slim  white  body  was 
flashing  like  a  faun  through  the  reeds  and 
bushes  up  stream.  A  hundred  yards  away 
the  creek  made  a  great  loop  about  a  wet 
thicket  of  pine  and  rhododendron,  and  he 
turned  across  the  bushy  neck.  Creeping 
through  the  gnarled  bodies  of  rhododen 
dron,  he  dropped  suddenly  behind  the  pine, 
and  lay  flat  in  the  black  earth.  Ten  yards 
through  the  dusk  before  him  was  the  half- 
bent  figure  of  a  man  letting  an  old  army 
haversack  slip  from  one  shoulder;  and 
Isom  watched  him  hide  it  with  a  rifle  under 

[82] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


a  bush,  and  go  noiselessly  on  towards  the 
road.  It  was  Crump,  Eli  Crump,  who  had 
been  a  spy  for  the  Lewallens  in  the  old  feud 
and  who  was  spying  now  for  old  Steve 
Brayton.  It  was  the  second  time  Isom  had 
seen  him  lurking  about,  and  the  boy's  im 
pulse  was  to  hurry  back  to  the  mill.  But 
it  was  still  peace,  and  without  his  gun 
Crump  was  not  dangerous;  so  Isom  rose 
and  ran  on,  and,  splashing  into  the  angry 
little  stream,  shot  away  like  a  roll  of  birch 
bark  through  the  tawny  crest  of  a  big  wave. 
He  had  done  the  feat  a  hundred  times ;  he 
knew  every  rock  and  eddy  in  flood-time, 
and  he  floated  through  them  and  slipped 
like  an  eel  into  the  mill-pond.  Old  Gabe 
was  waiting  for  him. 

"Whut  ye  mean,  boy,"  he  said,  sharply, 
"reskin*  the  fever  an'  ager  this  way?  No 
wonder  folks  thinks  ye  air  half  crazy.  Git 


THE   LAST   STETSON 


inter  them  clothes  now  'n  come  in  hyeh. 
You'll  ketch  yer  death  o'  cold  swimmin* 
this  way  atter  a  fresh." 

The  boy  was  shivering  when  he  took  his 
seat  at  the  funnel,  but  he  did  not  mind  that; 
some  day  he  meant  to  swim  over  that  dam. 
Steve  still  lay  motionless  in  the  corner  near 
him,  and  Isom  lifted  the  slouched  hat  and 
began  tickling  his  lips  with  a  straw.  Steve 
was  beyond  the  point  of  tickling,  and  Isom 
dropped  the  hat  back  and  turned  to  tell  the 
miller  what  he  had  seen  in  the  thicket.  The 
dim  interior  darkened  just  then,  and  Crump 
stood  in  the  door.  Old  Gabe  stared  hard 
at  him  without  a  word  of  welcome,  but 
Crump  shuffled  to  a  chair  unasked,  and  sat 
like  a  toad  astride  it,  with  his  knees  close 
up  under  his  arms,  and  his  wizened  face  in 
his  hands.  Meeting  Isom's  angry  glance, 
he  shifted  his  own  uneasily. 

[84] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


"Seed  the  new  preacher  comin'  'long  to 
day?"  he  asked.  Drawing  one  dirty  finger 
across  his  forehead,  "Got  a  long  scar  'cross 
hyeh." 

The  miller  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  he's  a-comin'.  I've  been  waitin' 
fer  him  up  the  road,  but  I  reckon  I  got  to 
git  'cross  the  river  purty  soon  now." 

Crump  had  been  living  over  in  Breathitt 
since  the  old  feud.  He  had  been  "convict 
ed"  over  there  by  Sherd  Raines,  a  preacher 
from  the  Jellico  Hills,  and  he  had  grown 
pious.  Indeed,  he  had  been  trailing  after 
Raines  from  place  to  place,  and  he  was  fol 
lowing  the  circuit-rider  now  to  the  scene 
of  his  own  deviltry — Hazlan. 

"Reckon  you  folks  don't  know  I  got  the 
cirkit-rider  to  come  over  hyeh,  do  ye?"  he 
went  on.  "Ef  he  can't  preach !  Well,  I'd 
tell  a  man!  He  kin  jus'  draw  the  heart 

[85] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


out'n  a  holler  log !  He  'convicted'  me  fust 
night,  over  thar  in  Breathitt.  He  come 
up  thar,  ye  know,  to  stop  the  feud,  he  said; 
'n'  thar  was  laughin'  from  one  eend  o' 
Breathitt  to  t'other ;  but  thar  was  the  whop- 
pinest  crowd  thar  I  ever  see  when  he  did 
come.  The  meetin'-house  wasn't  big 
enough  to  hold  'em,  so  he  goes  out  on  the 
aidge  o'  town,  'n'  climbs  on  to  a  stump. 
He  hed  a  woman  with  him  from  the  settle- 
mints — she's  a-waitin'  at  Hazlan  fer  him 
now — 'n'  she  had  a  cur'us  little  box,  'n'  he 
put  her  'n'  the  box  on  a  big  rock,  'n'  started 
in  a  callin'  'em  his  bretherin'  'n'  sisteren, 
'n1  folks  seed  mighty  soon  thet  he  meant 
it,  too.  He's  always  mighty  easylike,  tell 
he  gits  to  the  blood-penalty." 

At  the  word,  Crump's  listeners  paid  sud 
den  heed.    Old  Gabe's  knife  stopped  short 
in  the  heart  of  the  stick  he  was  whittling; 
[86] 


THE   LAST    STETSON 


the  boy  looked  sharply  up  from  the  run 
ning  meal  into  Crump's  face  and  sat 
still. 

"Well,  he  jes  prayed  to  the  Almighty  as 
though  he  was  a-talkin'  to  him  face  to  face, 
V  then  the  woman  put  her  hands  on  that 
box,  'n'  the  sweetes'  sound  anybody  thar 
ever  heerd  come  outen  it.  Then  she  got 
to  singin'.  Hit  wusn't  nuthin'  anybody 
thar'd  ever  heerd;  but  some  o'  the  women 
folks  was  a  snifflin'  'fore  she  got  through. 
He  pitched  right  into  the  feud,  as  he  calls 
hit,  V  the  sin  o'  sheddin'  human  blood,  I 
tell  ye;  V  'twixt  him  and  the  soldiers  I 
reckon  thar  won't  be  no  more  fightin'  in 
Breathitt.  He  says,  V  he  always  says  it 
mighty  loud" — Crump  raised  his  own 
voice — uthet  the  man  as  kills  his  feller- 
critter  hev  some  day  got  ter  give  up  his 
own  blood,  sartin  V  shore" 
[87] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


It  was  old  Gabe's  pet  theory,  and  he  was 
nodding  approval.  The  boy's  parted  lips 
shook  with  a  spasm  of  fear,  and  were  as 
quickly  shut  tight  with  suspicion.  Steve 
raised  his  head  as  though  he  too  had  heard 
the  voice,  and  looked  stupidly  about  him. 

"I.toF  him,"  Crump  went  on,  uthet 
things  was  already  a-gettin'  kind  o'  frolic 
some  round  hyeh  agin;  thet  the  Marcums 
1n'  Braytons  was  a-takin'  up  the  ole  war, 
V  would  be  a-plunkin'  one  'nother  every 
time  they  got  together,  V  a-gittin'  the 
whole  country  in  fear  'n'  tremblin' — now 
thet  Steve  Marcum  had  come  back." 

Steve  began  to  scowl  and  a  vixenish  smile 
hovered  at  Isom's  lips. 

"He  knows  mighty  well — fer  I  tol'  him 

— thet  thar  hain't  a  wuss  man  in  all  these 

mountains  than  thet  very  Steve — "     The 

name  ended  in  a  gasp,  and  the  wizened 

[88] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


gossip  was  caught  by  the  throat  and  tossed, 
chair  and  all,  into  a  corner  of  the  mill. 

"None  o'  that,  Steve!"  called  the  miller, 
sternly.      "Not    hyeh.      Don't    hurt    him 


Crump's  face  stiffened  with  such  terror 
that  Steve  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"Well,  ye  air  a  skeery  critter!"  he  said, 
contemptuously.  "I  hain't  goin'  to  hurt 
him,  UncP  Gabe,  but  he  must  be  a  plumb 
idgit,  a-talkin'  'bout  folks  to  thar  face,  'n' 
him  so  puny  an'  spindlin'I  You  git!" 

Crump  picked  himself  up  trembling — 
"Don't  ye  ever  let  me  see  ye  on  this  side  o' 
the  river  agin,  now" — and  shuffled  out, 
giving  Marcum  one  look  of  fear  and  un 
earthly  hate. 

"Convicted!"  snorted  Steve.  "I  heerd 
old  Steve  Brayton  had  hired  him  to  layway 
me,  'n'  I  swar  I  believe  hit's  so." 

[89] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


"Well,  he  won't  hev  to  give  him  more'n 
a  chaw  o'  tobaccer  now/'  said  Gabe. 
"He'll  come  purty  near  doin'  hit  hisself,  I 
reckon,  ef  he  gits  the  chance." 

"Well,  he  kin  git  the  chance  ef  I  gits 
my  leetle  account  settled  with  ole  Steve 
Brayton  fust.  Tears  like  that  old  hog 
ain't  satisfied  shootin'  me  hisself."  Stretch 
ing  his  arms  with  a  yawn,  Steve  winked  at 
Isom  and  moved  to  the  door.  The  boy  fol 
lowed  him  outside. 

"We're  goin'  fer  ole  Brayton  about  the 
dark  o'  the  next  moon,  boy,"  he  said. 
"He's  sort  o'  s'picious  now,  'n'  we'll  give 
him  a  leetle  time  to  git  tame.  I'll  have  a 
bran'-new  Winchester  fer  ye,  Isom.  Hit 
ull  be  like  ole  times  agin,  when  Rome  was 
hyeh.  Whut's  the  matter,  boy?"  he  asked, 
suddenly.  Isom  looked  unresponsive,  list 
less. 

[90] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


"Air  ye  gittin'  sick  agin?" 

"Well,  I  hain't  feelin'  much  peert, 
Steve." 

"Take  keer  o'  yourself,  boy.  Don't  git 
sick  now.  We'll  have  to  watch  Eli  Crump 
purty  close.  I  don't  know  why  I  hain't 
killed  thet  spyin'  skunk  long  ago,  'ceptin' 
I  never  had  a  shore  an'  sartin  reason  fer 
doin'  it." 

Isom  started  to  speak  then  and  stopped. 
He  would  learn  more  first ;  and  he  let  Steve 
go  on  home  unwarned. 

The  two  kept  silence  after  Marcum  had 
gone.  Isom  turned  away  from  old  Gabe, 
and  stretched  himself  out  on  the  platform. 
He  looked  troubled.  The  miller,  too,  was 
worried. 

"Jus'  a  hole  in  the  groun',"  he  said,  half 
to  himself;  "that's  whut  we're  all  comin' 
to !  'Pears  like  we  mought  help  one  'nother 

[91] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


to   keep   out'n   hit,    'stid   o'    holpin'    'em 


in." 


Brown  shadows  were  interlacing  out  in 
the  mill-pond,  where  old  Gabe's  eyes  were 
intent.  A  current  of  cool  air  had  started 
down  the  creek  to  the  river.  A  katydid 
began  to  chant.  Twilight  was  coming,  and 
the  miller  rose. 

"Hit's  a  comfort  to  know  you  won't  be 
mixed  up  in  all  this  devilment,"  he  said; 
and  then,  as  though  he  had  found  more 
light  in  the  gloom:  "Hit's  a  comfort  to 
know  the  new  rider  air  shorely  a-preachiny 
the  right  doctrine,  'n'  I  want  ye  to  go  hear 
him.  Blood  fer  blood — life  fer  a  life ! 
Your  grandad  shot  ole  Tom  Lewallen  in 
Hazlan.  Ole  Jack  Lewallen  shot  him 
from  the  bresh.  Tom  Stetson  killed  ole 
Jack;  ole  Jass  killed  Tom,  V  so  hit  comes 
down,  fer  back  as  I  can  ricollect.  I  hev 

[92] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


nuver  knowed  hit  to  fail."  The  lad  had 
risen  on  one  elbow.  His  face  was  pale  and 
uneasy,  and  he  averted  it  when  the  miller 
turned  in  the  door. 

"You'd  better  stay  hyeh,  son,  V  finish 
up  the  grist.  Hit  won't  take  long.  Hev 
ye  got  victuals  fer  yer  supper?" 

Isom  nodded,  without  looking  around, 
and  when  old  Gabe  was  gone  he  rose 
nervously  and  dropped  helplessly  back  to 
the  floor. 

"  'Pears  like  old  Gabe  knows  I  killed 
Jass,"  he  breathed,  sullenly.  Tears  like 
all  of  'em  knows  hit,  Jn'  air  jus'  a-torment- 
in'  me." 

Nobody  dreamed  that  the  boy  and  his 
old  gun  had  ended  that  fight  on  the  cliff; 
and  without  knowing  it,  old  Gabe  kept  the 
lad  in  constant  torture  with  his  talk  of  the 
blood-penalty.  But  Isom  got  used  to  it  in 

[93] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


time,  for  he  had  shot  to  save  his  brother's 
life.  Steve  Marcum  treated  him  there 
after  as  an  equal.  Steve's  friends,  too, 
changed  in  manner  towards  him  because 
Steve  had.  And  now,  just  when  he  had 
reached  the  point  of  wondering  whether, 
after  all,  there  might  not  be  one  thing  that 
old  Gabe  did  not  know,  Crump  had  come 
along  with  the  miller's  story,  which  he  had 
got  from  still  another,  a  circuit-rider,  who 
must  know  the  truth.  The  fact  gave  him 
trouble. 

"Mebbe  hit's  goin'  to  happen  when  I 
goes  with  Steve  atter  ole  Brayton,"  he 
mumbled,  and  he  sat  thinking  the  matter 
over,  until  a  rattle  and  a  whir  inside  the 
mill  told  him  that  the  hopper  was  empty. 
He  arose  to  fill  it,  and  coming  out  again, 
he  heard  hoof-beats  on  the  dirt  road.  A 
stranger  rode  around  the  rhododendrons 

[94] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


and  shouted  to  him,  asking  the  distance  to 
Hazlan.  He  took  off  his  hat  when  Isom 
answered,  to  wipe  the  dust  and  perspira 
tion  from  his  face,  and  the  boy  saw  a  white 
scar  across  his  forehead.  A  little  awe- 
stricken,  the  lad  walked  towards  him. 

uAir  you  the  new  rider  whut's  goin'  to 
preach  up  to  Hazlan?"  he  asked. 

Raines  smiled  at  the  solemnity  of  the 
little  fellow.  "Yes,"  he  said,  kindly. 
"Won't  you  come  up  and  hear  me?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said,  and  his  lips  parted 
as  though  he  wanted  to  say  something  else, 
but  Raines  did  not  notice. 

"I  wished  I  had  axed  him,"  he  said, 
watching  the  preacher  ride  away.  "Uncle 
Gabe  knows  might'  nigh  everything,  'n'  he 
says  so.  Crump  said  the  rider  said  so; 
but  Crump  might  'a'  been  lyin'.  He  'most 
al'ays  is.  I  wished  I  had  axed  him" 

[95] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


Mechanically  the  lad  walked  along  the 
mill-race,  which  was  made  of  hewn  boards 
and  hollow  logs.  In  every  crevice  grass 
hung  in  thick  bunches  to  the  ground  or 
tipped  wiry  blades  over  the  running  water. 
Tightening  a  prop  where  some  silvery  jet 
was  getting  too  large,  he  lifted  the  tail 
gate  a  trifle  and  lay  down  again  on  the 
platform  near  the  old  wheel.  Out  in  the 
mill-pond  the  water  would  break  now  and 
then  into  ripples  about  some  unwary  moth, 
and  the  white  belly  of  a  fish  would  flash 
from  the  surface.  It  was  the  only  sharp  ac 
cent  on  the  air.  The  chant  of  the  katydids 
had  become  a  chorus,  and  the  hush  of  dark 
ness  was  settling  over  the  steady  flow  of 
water  and  the  low  drone  of  the  millstones. 

"I  hain't  afeerd,"  he  kept  saying  to  him 
self.  "I  hain't  afeerd  o'  nothin'  nor  no- 
body ;"  but  he  lay  brooding  until  his  head 

[96] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


throbbed,  until  darkness  filled  the  narrow 
gorge,  and  the  strip  of  dark  blue  up 
through  the  trees  was  pointed  with  faint 
stars.  He  was  troubled  when  he  rose,  and 
climbed  on  Rome's  horse  and  rode  home 
ward — so  troubled  that  he  turned  finally 
and  started  back  in  a  gallop  for  Hazlan. 

It  was  almost  as  Crump  had  said.  There 
was  no  church  in  Hazlan,  and,  as  in  Breath- 
itt,  the  people  had  to  follow  Raines  outside 
the  town,  and  he  preached  from  the  road 
side.  The  rider's  Master  never  had  a 
tabernacle  more  simple :  overhead  the  stars 
and  a  low  moon ;  close  about,  the  trees  still 
and  heavy  with  summer ;  a  pine  torch  over 
his  head  like  a  yellow  plume;  two  tallow 
dips  hung  to  a  beech  on  one  side,  and  flick 
ing  to  the  other  the  shadows  of  the  people 
who  sat  under  them.  A  few  Marcums  and 
Braytons  were  there,  one  faction  shadowed 

[97] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


on  Raines's  right,  one  on  his  left.  Between 
them  the  rider  stood  straight,  and  prayed 
as  though  talking  with  some  one  among 
the  stars.  Behind  him  the  voice  of  the 
woman  at  her  tiny  organ  rose  among  the 
leaves.  And  then  he  spoke  as  he  had 
prayed ;  and  from  the  first  they  listened  like 
children,  while  in  their  own  homely  speech 
he  went  on  to  tell  them,  just  as  he  would 
have  told  children,  a  story  that  some  of 
them  had  never  heard  before.  "Forgive 
your  enemies  as  He  had  forgiven  his," 
that  was  his  plea.  Marcums  and  Braytons 
began  to  press  in  from  the  darkness  on  each 
side,  forgetting  each  other  as  the  rest  of 
the  people  forgot  them.  And  when  the 
story  was  quite  done,  Raines  stood  a  full 
minute  without  a  word.  No  one  was  pre 
pared  for  what  followed.  Abruptly  his 
voice  rose  sternly — "Thou  shalt  not  kill"; 

[98] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


and  then  Satan  took  shape  under  the  torch. 
The  man  was  transformed,  swaying  half 
crouched  before  them.  The  long  black 
hair  fell  across  the  white  scar,  and  picture 
after  picture  leaped  from  his  tongue  with 
such  vividness  that  a  low  wail  started 
through  the  audience,  and  women  sobbed 
in  their  bonnets.  It  was  penalty  for  blood 
shed — not  in  this  world :  penalty  eternal  in 
the  next;  and  one  slight  figure  under  the 
dips  staggered  suddenly  aside  into  the  dark 
ness. 

It  was  Isom;  and  no  soul  possessed  of 
devils  was  ever  more  torn  than  his,  when 
he  splashed  through  Troubled  Fork  and 
rode  away  that  night.  Half  a  mile  on  he 
tried  to  keep  his  eyes  on  his  horse's  neck, 
anywhere  except  on  one  high  gray  rock  to 
which  they  were  raised  against  his  will — 
the  peak  under  which  he  had  killed  young 

[99] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


Jasper.  There  it  was  staring  into  the 
moon,  but  watching  him  as  he  fled  through 
the  woods,  shuddering  at  shadows,  dodging 
branches  that  caught  at  him  as  he  passed, 
and  on  in  a  run,  until  he  drew  rein  and 
slipped  from  his  saddle  at  the  friendly  old 
mill.  There  was  no  terror  for  him  there. 
There  every  bush  was  a  friend ;  every  beech 
trunk  a  sentinel  on  guard  for  him  in  shining 
armor. 

It  was  the  old  struggle  that  he  was  start 
ing  through  that  night — the  old  fight  of 
humanity  from  savage  to  Christian;  and 
the  lad  fought  it  until,  with  the  birth  of  his 
wavering  soul,  the  premonitions  of  the  first 
dawn  came  on.  The  patches  of  moonlight 
shifted,  paling.  The  beech  columns  mot 
tled  slowly  with  gray  and  brown.  A  ruddy 
streak  was  cleaving  the  east  like  a  slow 
sword  of  fire.  The  chill  air  began  to  pulse 
[  100] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


and  the  mists  to  stir.  Moisture  had  gath 
ered  on  the  boy's  sleeve.  His  horse  was 
stamping  uneasily,  and  the  lad  rose  stiffly, 
his  face  gray  but  calm,  and  started  home. 
At  old  Gabe's  gate  he  turned  in  his  saddle 
to  look  where,  under  the  last  sinking  star, 
was  once  the  home  of  his  old  enemies. 
Farther  down,  under  the  crest,  was  old 
Steve  Brayton,  alive,  and  at  that  moment 
perhaps  asleep. 

"Forgive  your  enemies;"  that  was  the 
rider's  plea.  Forgive  old  Steve,  who  had 
mocked  him,  and  had  driven  Rome  from 
the  mountains;  who  had  threatened  old 
Gabe's  life,  and  had  shot  Steve  Marcum 
almost  to  death!  The  lad  drew  breath 
quickly,  and  standing  in  his  stirrups, 
stretched  out  his  fist,  and  let  it  drop,  slowly. 


[101] 


II 


OLD  Gabe  was  just  starting  out  when 
Isom  reached  the  cabin,  and  the  old  man 
thought  the  boy  had  been  at  the  mill  all 
night.  Isom  slept  through  the  day,  and 
spoke  hardly  a  word  when  the  miller  came 
home,  though  the  latter  had  much  to  say 
of  Raines,  the  two  Steves,  and  of  the 
trouble  possible.  He  gave  some  excuse  for 
not  going  with  old  Gabe  the  next  day,  and 
instead  went  into  the  woods  alone. 

Late  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  he 
reached  the  mill.  Old  Gabe  sat  smoking 
outside  the  door,  and  Isom  stretched  him 
self  out  on  the  platform  close  to  the  water, 
shading  his  eyes  from  the  rich  sunlight  with 
one  ragged  sleeve. 

[  102] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


"UncF  Gabe,"  he  said,  suddenly, 
"s'posirT  Steve  Brayton  was  to  step  out'n 
the  bushes  thar  some  mawnin'  V  pull  down 
his  Winchester  on  ye,  would  ye  say,  'Lawd, 
fergive  him,  fer  he  don't  know  whut  he 
do'?" 

Old  Gabe  had  told  him  once  about  a 
Stetson  and  a  Lewallen  who  were  heard 
half  a  mile  away  praying  while  they  fought 
each  other  to  death  with  Winchesters. 
There  was  no  use  "prayin'  an'  shootin'," 
the  miller  declared.  There  was  but  one 
way  for  them  to  escape  damnation;  that 
was  to  throw  down  their  guns  and  make 
friends.  But  the  miller  had  forgotten,  and 
his  mood  that  morning  was  whimsical. 

"Well,  I  mought,  Isom,"  he  said,  "ef  I 
didn't  happen  to  have  a  gun  handy." 

The  humor  was  lost  on  Isom.  His  chin 
was  moving  up  and  down,  and  his  face  was 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


serious.  That  was  just  it.  He  could  for 
give  Jass — Jass  was  dead;  he  could  for 
give  Crump,  if  he  caught  him  in  no  devil 
ment;  old  Brayton  even — after  Steve's  re 
venge  was  done.  But  now —  The  boy 
rose,  shaking  his  head. 

"Uncl'  Gabe,"  he  said  with  sudden  pas 
sion,  "whut  ye  reckon  Rome's  a-doin'?" 

The  miller  looked  a  little  petulant. 
"Don't  ye  git  tired  axin'  me  thet  question, 
Isom?  Rome's  a-scratchin'  right  peert  fer 
a  livin',  I  reckon,  fer  hisself  'n'  Marthy. 
Yes,  'n'  mebbe  fer  a  young  'un  too  by  this 
time.  Ef  ye  air  honin'  fer  Rome,  why 
don't  ye  rack  out  'n'  go  to  him?  Lawd 
knows  I'd  hate  ter  see  ye  go,  but  I  toP 
Rome  I'd  let  ye  whenever  ye  got  ready,  Jn' 
so  I  will." 

Isom  had  no  answer,  and  old  Gabe  was 
puzzled.  It  was  always  this  way.  The 
[  104] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


boy  longed  for  Rome,  the  miller  could  see. 
He  spoke  of  him  sometimes  with  tears, 
and  sometimes  he  seemed  to  be  on  the  point 
of  going  to  him,  but  he  shrank  inexplicably 
when  the  time  for  leaving  came. 

Isom   started  into  the  mill  now  with 
out  a  word,  as  usual.     Old  Gabe  noticed 
that  his  feet  were  unsteady,  and  with  quick 
remorse  began  to  question  him. 
"Kinder  puny,  hain't  ye,  Isom?" 
"Well,  I  hain't  feelin'  much  peert." 
"Hit  was  mighty  keerless,"   old  Gabe 
said,  with  kindly  reproach,  "swimmin'  the 
crick  atter  a  fresh." 

"Hit  wasn't  the  swimmin',"  he  protest 
ed,  dropping  weakly  at  the  threshold. 
"Hit  was  settin'  out  *n  the  woods.  I  was 
in  Hazlan  t'other  night,  Uncl'  Gabe,  to 
hear  the  new  rider." 

The  miller  looked  around  with  quick  in- 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


terest.  "I've  been  skeered  afore  by  riders 
a-tellin'  'bout  the  torments  o'  hell,  but  I 
never  heerd  nothin'  like  his  tellin'  'bout  the 
Lord.  He  said  the  Lord  was  jes  as  pore 
as  anybody  thar,  and  lived  jes  as  rough; 
thet  He  made  fences  and  barns  V  ox-yokes 
V  sech  like,  an'  He  couldn't  write  His  own 
name  when  He  started  out  to  save  the 
worl' ;  an'  when  he  come  to  the  p'int  whar 
His  enemies  tuk  hoi'  of  Him,  the  rider  jes 
crossed  his  fingers  up  over  his  head  'n'  axed 
us  if  we  didn't  know  how  it  hurt  to  run  a 
splinter  into  a  feller's  hand  when  he's  log- 
gin',  or  a  thorn  into  yer  foot  when  ye're 
goin'  barefooted. 

"Hit  jes  made  me  sick,  Uncl'  Gabe, 
hearin'  him  tell  how  they  stretched  Him 
out  on  a  cross  o'  wood,  when  He'd  come 
down  fer  nothin'  but  to  save  'em,  'n'  stuck 
a  spear  big  as  a  co'n-knife  into  His  side,  'n' 
[106] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


give  Him  vinegar,  'n'  let  Him  hang  thar 
'n'  die,  with  His  own  mammy  a-standin' 
down  on  the  groun'  a-cryin'  'n'  watchin' 
Him.  Some  folks  thar  never  heerd  sech 
afore.  The  women  was  a-rockin',  'n'  ole 
Granny  Day  axed  right  out  ef  thet  tuk 
place  a  long  time  ago;  'n'  the  rider  said, 
'Yes,  a  long  time  ago,  mos'  two  thousand 
years.'  Granny  was  a-cryin',  Uriel'  Gabe, 
'n1  she  said,  sorter  soft,  'Stranger,  let's  hope 
that  hit  hain't  so';  'n'  the  rider  says,  'But 
hit  air  so;  'n'  He  fergive  'em  while  they 
was  doin*  it!  Thet's  whut  got  me,  UncP 
Gabe,  'n'  when  the  woman  got  to  singin', 
somethin'  kinder  broke  loose  hyeh" — Isom 
passed  his  hand  over  his  thin  chest — "  'n'  I 
couldn't  git  breath.  I  was  mos'  afeerd  to 
ride  home.  I  jes  layed  at  the  mill  studyin', 
till  I  thought  my  head  would  bust.  I  reck 
on  hit  was  the  Sperit  a-workin'  me.  Looks 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


like  I  was  mos'  convicted,  Uncl'  Gabe." 
His  voice  trembled  and  he  stopped. 
"Crump  was  a-lyin',"  he  cried,  suddenly. 
"But  hit's  wuss,  Uncl'  Gabe;  hit's  wuss! 
You  say  a  life  f er  a  life  in  this  worP ;  the 
rider  says  hit's  in  the  next,  'n'  I'm  mis'ble, 
Uncl'  Gabe.  Ef  Rome — I  wish  Rome  was 
hyeh,"  he  cried,  helplessly.  "I  don't  know 
whut  to  do." 

The  miller  rose  and  limped  within  the 
mill,  and  ran  one  hand  through  the  shifting 
corn.  He  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking 
long  and  perplexedly  towards  Hazlan;  he 
finally  saw,  he  thought,  just  what  the  lad's 
trouble  was.  He  could  give  him  some  com 
fort,  and  he  got  his  chair  and  dragged  it 
out  to  the  door  across  the  platform,  and  sat 
down  in  silence. 

"fsom,"  he  said  at  last,  "the  Sperit  air 
shorely  a-workin'  ye,  'n'  I'm  glad  of  it. 
[1083 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


But  ye  mus'n't  worry  about  the  penalty 
a-fallin'  on  Rome.  Steve  Marcum  killed 
Jass — he  can't  fool  me — 'n'  I've  told  Steve 
he's  got  thet  penalty  to  pay  ef  he  gits  up 
this  trouble.  I'm  glad  the  Sperit's  a-work- 
in'  ye,  but  ye  mus'n't  worry  'bout  Rome:" 

Isom  rose  suddenly  on  one  elbow,  and 
with  a  moan  lay  back  and  crossed  his  arms 
over  his  face. 

Old  Gabe  turned  and  left  him. 

uGit  up,  Isom."  It  was  the  miller's 
voice  again,  an  hour  later.  "You  better  go 
home  now.  Ride  the  hoss,  boy,"  he  added, 
kindly. 

Isom  rose,  and  old  Gabe  helped  him 
mount,  and  stood  at  the  door.  The  horse 
started,  but  the  boy  pulled  him  to  a  stand 
still  again. 

"I  want  to  ax  ye  jes  one  thing  more, 
[109] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


Uncl'  Gabe,"  he  said,  slowly.  "S'posin' 
Steve  had  a-killed  Jass  to  keep  him  from 
killin'  Rome,  hev  he  got  to  be  damned  f er 
it  jes  the  same?  Hev  he  got  to  give  up 
eternal  life  anyways?  Hain't  thar  no  way 
out'n  it — no  way?" 

There  was  need  for  close  distinction  now 
and  the  miller  was  deliberate. 

"Ef  Steve  shot  Jass,"  he  said,  "jes  to 
save  Rome's  life — he  had  the  right  to  shoot 
him.  Thar  hain't  no  doubt  'bout  that.  The 
law  says  so.  But" — there  was  a  judicial 
pause — "I've  heerd  Steve  say  that  he  hated 
Jass  wuss  'n  anybody  on  earth,  'cept  old 
Brayton;  'n'  ef  he  wus  glad  o'  the  chance 
o'  killin'  him,  why —  the  Lord  air  merciful, 
Isom ;  the  Bible  air  true,  'n'  hit  says  an  'eye 
fer  an  eye  'n'  a  tooth  fer  a  tooth,'  'n'  I 
never  knowed  hit  to  fail — but  the  Lord  air 
merciful.  Ef  Steve  would  only  jes  repent, 
[no] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


'n'  ef,  'stid  o'  fightin'  the  Lord  by  takin' 
human  life,  he'd  fight  fer  Him  by  savin' 
it,  I  reckon  the  Lord  would  fergive  him. 
Fer  ef  ye  lose  yer  life  fer  Him,  He  do  say 
you'll  find  it  agin  somewhar — sometime." 

Old  Gabe  did  not  see  the  sullen  despair 
that  came  into  the  boy's  tense  face.  The 
subtlety  of  the  answer  had  taken  the  old 
man  back  to  the  days  when  he  was  magis 
trate,  and  his  eyes  were  half  closed.  Isom 
rode  away  without  a  word.  From  the  dark 
of  the  mill  old  Gabe  turned  to  look  after 
him  again. 

"I'm  afeerd  he's  a-gittin'  feverish  agin. 
Hit  looks  like  he's  convicted;  but" — he 
knew  the  wavering  nature  of  the  boy — "I 
don't  know — I  don't  know." 

Going  home  an  hour  later,  the  old  man 
saw  several  mountaineers  climbing  the  path 
towards  Steve  Marcum's  cabin;  it  meant 
[in] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


the   brewing   of   mischief;    and  when   he 
stopped  at  his  own  gate,  he  saw  at  the  bend 
of  the  road  a  figure  creep  from  the  bushes 
on  one  side  into  the  bushes  on  the  other. 
It  looked  like  Crump. 


[112] 


Ill 


IT  was  Crump,  and  fifty  yards  behind 
him  was  Isom,  slipping  through  the  brush 
after  him — Isom's  evil  spirit — old  Gabe, 
Raines,  "conviction,"  blood-penalty,  for 
gotten,  all  lost  in  the  passion  of  a  chase 
which  has  no  parallel  when  the  game  is 
man. 

Straight  up  the  ravine  Crump  went  along 
a  path  which  led  to  Steve  Marcum's  cabin. 
There  was  a  clump  of  rhododendron  at  the 
head  of  the  ravine,  and  near  Steve's  cabin. 
About  this  hour  Marcum  would  be  chop 
ping  wood  for  supper,  or  sitting  out  in  his 
porch  in  easy  range  from  the  thicket. 
Crump's  plan  was  plain:  he  was  about  his 
revenge  early,  and  Isom  was  exultant. 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


"Oh,  no,  Eli,  you  won't  git  Steve  this 
time.     Oh,  naw!" 

The  bushes  were  soon  so  thick  that  he 
could  no  longer  follow  Crump  by  sight, 
and  every  few  yards  he  had  to  stop  to  listen, 
and  then  steal  on  like  a  mountain-cat 
towards  the  leaves  rustling  ahead  of  him. 
Half-way  up  the  ravine  Crump  turned  to 
the  right  and  stopped.  Puzzled,  Isom 
pushed  so  close  that  the  spy,  standing  ir 
resolute  on  the  edge  of  the  path,  whirled 
around.  The  boy  sank  to  his  face,  and  in 
a  moment  footsteps  started  and  grew  faint ; 
Crump  had  darted  across  the  path,  and  was 
running  through  the  undergrowth  up  the 
spur.  Isom  rose  and  hurried  after  him; 
and  when,  panting  hard,  he  reached  the 
top,  the  spy's  skulking  figure  was  sliding 
from  Steve's  house  and  towards  the  Breath- 
itt  road;  and  with  a  hot,  puzzled  face,  the 
boy  went  down  after  it. 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


On  a  little  knob  just  over  a  sudden  turn 
in  the  road  Crump  stopped,  and  looking 
sharply  about  him,  laid  his  gun  down.  Just 
in  front  of  him  were  two  rocks,  waist-high, 
with  a  crevice  between  them.  Drawing  a 
long  knife  from  his  pocket,  he  climbed  upon 
them,  and  began  to  cut  carefully  away  the 
spreading  top  of  a  bush  that  grew  on  the 
other  side.  Isom  crawled  down  towards 
him  like  a  lizard,  from  tree  to  tree.  A 
moment  later  the  spy  was  filling  up  the 
crevice  with  stones,  and  Isom  knew  what 
he  was  about;  he  was  making  a  "blind" 
to  waylay  Steve,  who,  the  boy  knew,  was 
going  to  Breathitt  by  that  road  the  next 
Sunday.  How  did  Crump  know  that — 
how  did  he  know  everything?  The  crevice 
filled,  Crump  cut  branches  and  stuck  them 
between  the  rocks.  Then  he  pushed  his 
rifle  through  the  twigs,  and  taking  aim 
several  times,  withdrew  it.  When  he 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


turned  away  at  last  and  started  down  to  the 
road,  he  looked  back  once  more,  and  Isom 
saw  him  grinning.  Almost  chuckling  in 
answer,  the  lad  slipped  around  the  knob 
to  the  road  the  other  way,  and  Crump 
threw  up  his  gun  with  a  gasp  of  fright 
when  a  figure  rose  out  of  the  dusk  before 
him. 

"HoF  on,  Eli!"  said  Isom,  easily. 
"Don't  git  skeered !  Hit's  nobody  but  me. 
Whar  ye  been?" 

Crump  laughed,  so  quick  was  he  dis 
armed  of  suspicion.  "Jes  up  the  river  a 
piece  to  see  Aunt  Sally  Day.  She's  a  fust 
cousin  o'  mine  by  marriage." 

Isom's  right  hand  was  slipping  back  as 
if  to  rest  on  his  hip.  "D'you  say  you'd 
been  'convicted,'  Eli?" 

Crump's  answer  was  chantlike.     "Yes, 
Lawd,  reckon  I  have." 
[116] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


"Coin'  to  stop  all  o'  yer  lyin',  air  ye," 
Isom  went  on,  in  the  same  tone,  and  Crump 
twitched  as  though  struck  suddenly  from 
behind,  "an'  stealin'  V  lay-wayin'f" 

"Look  a-hyeh,  boy — "  he  began,  rough 
ly,  and  mumbling  a  threat,  started  on. 

"Uh,  Eli!"  Even  then  the  easy  voice 
fooled  him  again,  and  he  turned.  Isom 
had  a  big  revolver  on  a  line  with  his  breast. 
"Drap  yer  gun!"  he  said,  tremulously. 

Crump  tried  to  laugh,  but  his  guilty  face 
turned  gray.  "Take  keer,  boy,"  he  gasped; 
"yer  gun's  cocked.  Take  keer,  I  tell  ye!" 

"Drap  it,  damn  ye!"  Isom  called  in  sud 
den  fury,  "  V  git  clean  away  from  it!" 
Crump  backed,  and  Isom  came  forward 
and  stood  with  one  foot  on  the  fallen  Win 
chester. 

"I  seed  ye,  Eli.  Been  makin'  a  blind  fer 
Steve,  hev  ye?  Coin'  to  shoot  him  in  the 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


back,  too,  air  ye?  You're  ketched  at  last, 
Eli.  YouVe  done  a  heap  o'  devilment. 
You're  gittin'  wuss  all  the  time.  You 
oughter  be  dead,  V  now " 

Crump  found  voice  in  a  cry  of  terror 
and  a  whine  for  mercy.  The  boy  looked 
at  him,  unable  to  speak  his  contempt. 

"Git  down  thar!"  he  said,  finally;  and 
Crump,  knowing  what  was  wanted, 
stretched  himself  in  the  road.  Isom  sat 
down  on  a  stone,  the  big  pistol  across  one 
knee. 

"Roll  over!"  Crump  rolled  at  full 
length. 

"Git  up!"  Isom  laughed  wickedly. 
"Ye  don't  look  purty,  Eli."  He  lifted  the 
pistol  and  nipped  a  cake  of  dirt  from  the 
road  between  Crump's  feet.  With  another 
cry  of  fear,  the  spy  began  a  vigorous  dance. 

"Hoi'  on,  Eli;  I  don't  want  ye  to  dance. 
[118] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


Ye  belong  to  the  chu'ch  now,  'n'  I  wouldn't 
have  ye  go  agin  yer  religion  fer  nothin'. 
Stan'  still!"  Another  bullet  and  another 
cut  between  Crump's  feet.  "  Tears  like 
ye  don't  think  I  kin  shoot  straight.  Eli," 
he  went  on,  reloading  the  empty  chambers, 
"some  folks  think  I'm  a  idgit,  'n'  I  know 
'em.  Do  you  think  I'm  a  idgit,  Eli?" 

"Actin'  mighty  nateral  now."  Isom  was 
raising  the  pistol  again.  "Oh,  Lawdy! 
Don't  shoot,  boy — don't  shoot!" 

"Git  down  on  yer  knees!  Now  I  want 
ye  to  beg  fer  mercy  thet  ye  never  showed — 
thet  ye  wouldn't  'a'  showed  Steve.  .  .  . 
Purty  good,"  he  said,  encouragingly. 

"Mebbe  ye  kin  pray  a  leetle,  seein'  ez 
ye  air  a  chu'ch  member.  Pray  fer  yer  ene 
mies,  Eli ;  Uncl'  Gabe  says  ye  must  love  yer 
enemies.  I  know  how  ye  loves  me,  'n'  I 
want  yer  to  pray  fer  me.  The  Lawd  mus' 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


sot  a  powerful  store  by  a  good  citizen  like 
you.  Ax  him  to  fergive  me  fer  killin'  ye." 

"Have  mercy,  O  Lawd,"  prayed  Crump, 
to  command — and  the  prayer  was  subtle — 
"on  the  murderer  of  this  thy  servant.  A 
life  fer  a  life,  thou  hev  said,  O  Lawd.  Fer 
killin'  me  he  will  foller  me,  V  ef  ye  hev 
not  mussy  he  is  boun'  fer  the  lowes'  pit  oj 
hell,  O  Lawd " 

It  was  Isom's  time  to  wince  now,  and 
Crump's  pious  groan  was  cut  short. 

"Shet  up!"  cried  the  boy,  sharply,  and 
he  sat  a  moment  silent.  "You've  been 
a-spyin'  on  us  sence  I  was  horned,  Eli,"  he 
said,  reflectively.  "I  believe  ye  lay-wayed 
dad.  Y'u  spied  on  Rome.  Y'u  told  the 
soldiers  whar  he  was  a-hidin'.  Y'u  tried 
to  shoot  him  from  the  bresh.  Y'u  found 
out  Steve  was  goin'  to  Breathitt  on  Sunday, 
'n'  you've  jes  made  a  blind  to  shoot  him  in 
[  120] 


Pray  fer  yer  enemies,  Eli." 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


the  back.  I  reckon  thar's  no  meanness  ye 
hain't  done.  Dad  al'ays  said  ye  sot  a  snare 
fer  a  woman  once — a  woman !  Y'u  loaded 
a  musket  with  slugs,  V  tied  a  string  to  the 
trigger,  V  stretched  hit  'cross  the  path,  'n' 
y'u  got  up  on  a  cliff  'n'  whistled  to  make 
her  slow  up  jes  when  she  struck  the  string. 
I  reckon  thet's  yer  wust — but  I  don't 
know." 

Several  times  Crump  raised  his  hands  in 
protest  while  his  arraignment  was  going 
on;  several  times  he  tried  to  speak,  but  his 
lips  refused  utterance.  The  boy's  voice 
was  getting  thicker  and  thicker,  and  he  was 
nervously  working  the  cock  of  the  big  pistol 
up  and  down. 

"Git  up,"  he  said;  and  Crump  rose  with 
a  spring.  The  lad's  tone  meant  release. 

"You  hain't  wuth  the  risk.  I  hain't 
goin'  ter  kill  ye.  I  jus'  wanted  ter  banter 

[121] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


ye  'n'  make  ye  beg.  You're  a  good  beggar, 
Eli,  V  a  powerful  prayer.  You'll  be  a 
shinin'  light  in  the  chu'ch,  ef  ye  gits  a 
chance  ter  shine  long.  Fer  lemme  tell  ye, 
nobody  ever  ketched  ye  afore.  But  you're 
ketched  now,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  tell  Steve. 
He'll  be  a-watchin'  fer  ye,  V  so  '11  I.  I 
tell  ye  in  time,  ef  ye  ever  come  over  hyeh 
agin  as  long  as  you  live,  you'll  never  git 
back  alive.  Turn  roun' !  Hev  ye  got  any 
balls?"  he  asked,  feeling  in  Crump's  pock 
ets  for  cartridges.  "No;  well" — he  picked 
up  the  Winchester  and  pumped  the  maga 
zine  empty — "I'll  keep  these,"  he  said, 
handing  Crump  the  empty  rifle.  "Now  git 
away — an'  git  away  quick!" 

Crump's  slouching  footsteps  went  out  of 
hearing,  and  Isom  sat  where  he  was.  His 
elbows  dropped  to  his  knees.  His  face 
dropped  slowly  into  his  hands,  and  the 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


nettles  of  remorse  began  to  sting.  He  took 
the  back  of  one  tremulous  hand  presently 
to  wipe  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead, 
and  he  found  it  burning.  A  sharp  pain 
shot  through  his  eyes.  He  knew  what  that 
meant,  and  feeling  dizzy,  he  rose  and 
started  a  little  blindly  towards  home. 

Old  Gabe  was  waiting  for  him.  He  did 
not  answer  the  old  man's  querulous  inquiry, 
but  stumbled  towards  a  bed.  An  hour 
later,  when  the  miller  was  rubbing  his  fore 
head,  he  opened  his  eyes,  shut  them,  and 
began  to  talk. 

"I  reckon  I  hain't  much  better  'n  Eli, 
Uncl'  Gabe,"  he  said,  plaintively.  "I've 
been  abusin'  him  down  thar  in  the  woods. 
I  come  might'  nigh  killin'  him  onct."  The 
old  man  stroked  on,  scarcely  heeding  the 
boy's  words,  so  much  nonsense  would  he 
talk  when  ill. 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


"I've  been  lyin'  to  ye,  UncP  Gabe,  V 
a-deceivin'  of  ye  right  along.  Steve's 
a-goin'  atter  ole  Brayton — I'm  goin'  too — 
Steve  didn't  kill  Jass — hit  wusn't  Steve — 
hit  wusn't  Rome — hit  was — "  The  last 
word  stopped  behind  his  shaking  lips;  he 
rose  suddenly  in  bed,  looked  wildly  into  the 
miller's  startled  face,  and  dropping  with  a 
sob  to  the  bed,  went  sobbing  to  sleep. 

Old  Gabe  went  back  to  his  pipe,  and 
while  he  smoked,  his  figure  shrank  slowly  in 
his  chair.  He  went  to  bed  finally,  but  sleep 
would  not  come,  and  he  rose  again  and 
built  up  the  fire  and  sat  by  it,  waiting  for 
day.  His  own  doctrine,  sternly  taught  for 
many  a  year,  had  come  home  to  him;  and 
the  miller's  face  when  he  opened  his  door 
was  gray  as  the  breaking  light. 


IV 


THERE  was  little  peace  for  old  Gabe 
that  day  at  the  mill.  And  when  he  went 
home  at  night  he  found  cause  for  the  thou 
sand  premonitions  that  had  haunted  him. 
The  lad  was  gone. 

A  faint  light  in  the  east  was  heralding 
the  moon  when  Isom  reached  Steve  Mar- 
cum's  gate.  There  were  several  horses 
hitched  to  the  fence,  several  dim  forms 
seated  in  the  porch,  and  the  lad  hallooed 
for  Steve,  whose  shadow  shot  instantly 
from  the  door  and  came  towards  him. 

"Glad  ter  see  ye,  Isom,"  he  called,  jubi 
lantly.  "I  was  jus'  about  to  sen'  fer  ye. 
How'd  ye  happen  to  come  up?" 

Isom  answered  in  a  low  voice  with  the 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


news    of    Crump's    "blind,"    and    Steve 
laughed  and  swore  in  the  same  breath. 

"Come  hyeh!"  he  said,  leading  the  way 
back;  and  at  the  porch  he  had  Isom  tell 
the  story  again. 

"Whut  d'  I  tell  ye,  boys?"  he  asked, 
triumphantly.  "Don't  believe  ye  more  'n 
half  believed  me." 

Three  more  horsemen  rode  up  to  the  gate 
and  came  into  the  light.  Every  man  was 
armed,  and  at  Isom's  puzzled  look,  Steve 
caught  the  lad  by  the  arm  and  led  him 
around  the  chimney-corner.  He  was  in 
high  spirits. 

"  'Pears  like  ole  times,  Isom.  I'm 
a-goin'  fer  thet  cussed  ole  Steve  Brayton 
this  very  night.  He's  behind  Crump.  I 
s'picioned  it  afore;  now  I  know  it  for  sar- 
tain.  He's  a-goin'  to  give  Eli  a  mule  V 
a  Winchester  fer  killin'  me.  We're  goin' 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


to  s'prise  him  to-night.  He  won't  be  look- 
in'  fer  us — I've  fixed  that.  I  wus  jus' 
about  to  sen'  fer  ye.  I  hain't  fergot  how 
ye  kin  handle  a  gun."  Steve  laughed  sig 
nificantly.  "Ye're  a  good  frien'  o'  mine, 
'n'  I'm  goin'  to  show  ye  thet  I'm  a  frien' 
o'  yourn." 

Isom's  paleness  was  unnoticed  in  the 
dark.  The  old  throbbing  began  to  beat 
again  at  his  temple;  the  old  haze  started 
from  his  eyes. 

"Hyeh's  yer  gun,  Isom,"  he  heard  Steve 
saying  next.  The  fire  was  blazing  into  his 
face.  At  the  chimney-corner  was  the  bent 
figure  of  old  Daddy  Marcum,  and  across 
his  lap  shone  a  Winchester.  Steve  was 
pointing  at  it,  his  grim  face  radiant;  the 
old  man's  toothless  mouth  was  grinning, 
and  his  sharp  black  eyes  were  snapping  up 
at  him. 

[  127] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


"Hit's  yourn,  I  tell  ye,"  said  Steve 
again.  "I  aimed  jes  to  lend  it  to  ye,  but 
ye've  saved  me  frum  gittin'  killed,  mebbe, 
V  hit's  yourn  now — yourn,  boy,  fer 
keeps." 

Steve  was  holding  the  gun  out  to  him 
now.  The  smooth  cold  touch  of  the  pol 
ished  barrel  thrilled  him.  It  made  every 
thing  for  an  instant  clear  again,  and  feel 
ing  weak,  Isom  sat  down  on  the  bed,  grip 
ping  the  treasure  in  both  trembling  hands. 
On  one  side  of  him  some  one  was  repeat 
ing  Steve's  plan  of  attack.  Old  Brayton's 
cabin  was  nearly  opposite,  but  they  would 
go  up  the  river,  cross  above  the  mill,  and 
ride  back.  The  night  was  cloudy,  but  they 
would  have  the  moonlight  now  and  then 
for  the  climb  up  the  mountain.  They 
would  creep  close,  and  when  the  moon  was 
hid  they  would  run  in  and  get  old  Brayton 

[128] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


alive,  if  possible.  Then — the  rest  was 
with  Steve. 

Across  the  room  he  could  hear  Steve 
telling  the  three  new-comers,  with  an  occa 
sional  curse,  about  Crump's  blind,  and  how 
he  knew  that  old  Brayton  was  hiring 
Crump. 

"Old  Steve's  meaner  'n  Eli,"  he  said  to 
himself,  and  a  flame  of  the  old  hate  surged 
up  from  the  fire  of  temptation  in  his  heart. 
Steve  Marcum  was  his  best  friend;  Steve 
had  shielded  him.  The  boy  had  promised 
to  join  him  against  old  Brayton,  and  here 
was  the  Winchester,  brand-new,  to  bind 
his  word. 

"Git  ready,  boys;  git  ready." 

It  was  Steve's  voice,  and  in  Isom's  ears 

the  preacher's  voice  rang  after  it.     Again 

that  blinding  mist  before  his  eyes,  and  the 

boy  brushed  at  it  irritably.     He  could  see 

[  129] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


the  men  buckling  cartridge-belts,  but  he 
sat  still.  Two  or  three  men  were  going 
out.  Daddy  Marcum  was  leaning  on  a 
chair  at  the  door,  looking  eagerly  at  each 
man  as  he  passed. 

"Hain't  ye  goin',  Isom?" 

Somebody  was  standing  before  him 
twirling  a  rifle  on  its  butt,  a  boy  near 
Isom's  age.  The  whirling  gun  made  him 
dizzy. 

"Stop  it!"  he  cried,  angrily.  Old  Dad 
dy  Marcum  was  answering  the  boy's  ques 
tion  from  the  door. 

"Isom  goin'?"  he  piped,  proudly.  "I 
reckon  he  air.  Whar's  yer  belt,  boy  ?  Git 
ready.  Git  ready." 

Isom  rose  then — he  could  not  answer 
sitting  down — and  caught  at  a  bedpost 
with  one  hand,  while  he  fumbled  at  his 
throat  with  the  other. 

[  130] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


"I  hain't  goin'." 

Steve  heard  at  the  door,  and  whirled 
around.  Daddy  Marcum  was  tottering 
across  the  floor,  with  one  bony  hand  up 
lifted. 

"You're  a  coward!"  The  name  stilled 
every  sound.  Isom,  with  eyes  afire,  sprang 
at  the  old  man  to  strike,  but  somebody 
caught  his  arm  and  forced  him  back  to  the 
bed. 

"Shet  up,  dad,"  said  Steve,  angrily, 
looking  sharply  into  Isom's  face.  "Don't 
ye  see  the  boy's  sick?  He  needn't  go  ef 
he  don't  want  to.  Time  to  start,  boys." 

The  tramp  of  heavy  boots  started  across 
the  puncheon  floor  and  porch  again.  Isom 
could  hear  Steve's  orders  outside;  the 
laughs  and  jeers  and  curses  of  the  men  as 
they  mounted  their  horses;  he  heard  the 
cavalcade  pass  through  the  gate,  the  old 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


man's  cackling  good-by;  then  the  horses' 
hoofs  going  down  the  mountain,  and  Dad 
dy  Marcum's  hobbling  step  on  the  porch 
again.  He  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor,  full  in  the  firelight,  when  the 
old  man  reached  the  threshold — standing 
in  a  trance,  with  a  cartridge-belt  in  his 
hand. 

"Good  fer  you,  Isom !" 

The  cry  was  apologetic,  and  stopped 
short. 

"The  critter's  fersaken,"  he  quavered, 
and  cowed  by  the  boy's  strange  look,  the 
old  man  shrank  away  from  him  along  the 
wall.  But  Isom  seemed  neither  to  see  nor 
hear.  He  caught  up  his  rifle,  and  waver 
ing  an  instant,  tossed  it  with  the  belt  on  the 
bed  and  ran  out  the  door.  The  old  man 
followed,  dumb  with  amazement. 

"Isom!"  he  called,  getting  his  wits  and 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


his  tongue  at  last.  "Hyeh's  yer  gun! 
Come  back,  I  tell  ye !  You've  fergot  yer 
gun !  Isom !  Isom  1" 

The  voice  piped  shrilly  out  into  the 
darkness,  and  piped  back  without  answer. 

A  steep  path,  dangerous  even  by  day, 
ran  snakelike  from  the  cabin  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  It  was  called  Isom's  path 
after  that  tragic  night.  No  mountaineer 
went  down  it  thereafter  without  a  firm 
faith  that  only  by  the  direct  help  of 
Heaven  could  the  boy,  in  his  flight  down 
through  the  dark,  have  reached  the  river 
and  the  other  side  alive.  The  path 
dropped  from  ledge  to  ledge,  and  ran  the 
brink  of  precipices  and  chasms.  In  a 
dozen  places  the  boy  crashed  through  the 
undergrowth  from  one  slippery  fold  to 
the  next  below,  catching  at  roots  and 
stones,  slipping  past  death  a  score  of  times, 

[  133] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


and  dropping  on  till  a  flood  of  yellow  light 
lashed  the  gloom  before  him.  Just  there 
the  river  was  most  narrow;  the  nose  of 
a  cliff  swerved  the  current  sharply  across, 
and  on  the  other  side  an  eddy  ran  from 
it  up  stream.  These  earthly  helps  he  had, 
and  he  needed  them. 

There  had  been  a  rain-storm,  and  the 
waves  swept  him  away  like  thistle-down, 
and  beat  back  at  him  as  he  fought  through 
them  and  stood  choked  and  panting  on 
the  other  shore.  He  did  not  dare  stop 
to  rest.  The  Marcums,  too,  had  crossed 
the  river  up  at  the  ford  by  this  time,  and 
were  galloping  towards  him;  and  Isom 
started  on  and  up.  When  he  reached  the 
first  bench  of  the  spur  the  moon  was  swing 
ing  over  Thunderstruck  Knob.  The 
clouds  broke  as  he  climbed;  strips  of  radi 
ant  sky  showed  between  the  rolling  masses, 

[134] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


and  the  mountain  above  was  light  and  dark 
in  quick  succession.  He  had  no  breath 
when  he  reached  the  ledge  that  ran  above 
old  Steve's  cabin,  and  flinging  one  arm 
above  it,  he  fell  through  sheer  exhaustion. 
The  cabin  was  dark  as  the  clump  of  firs 
behind  it;  the  inmates  were  unsuspecting; 
and  Steve  Marcum  and  his  men  were  not 
far  below.  A  rumbling  started  under  him, 
while  he  lay  there  and  grew  faint — the 
rumble  of  a  stone  knocked  from  the  path 
by  a  horse's  hoof.  Isom  tried  to  halloo, 
but  his  voice  stopped  in  a  whisper,  and  he 
painfully  drew  himself  upon  the  rock,  up 
right  under  the  bright  moon.  A  quick 
oath  of  warning  came  then — it  was 
Crump's  shrill  voice  in  the  Brayton  cabin 
— and  Isom  stumbled  forward  with  both 
hands  thrown  up  and  a  gasping  cry  at  his 
lips.  One  flash  came  through  a  port-hole 

[1351 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


of  the  cabin.  A  yell  broke  on  the  night — 
Crump's  cry  again — and  the  boy  swayed 
across  the  rock,  and  falling  at  the  brink, 
dropped  with  a  limp  struggle  out  of  sight. 


THE  news  of  Isom's  fate  reached  the 
miller  by  way  of  Hazlan  before  the 
next  noon.  Several  men  in  the  Brayton 
cabin  had  recognized  the  boy  in  the  moon 
light.  At  daybreak  they  found  blood 
stains  on  the  ledge  and  on  a  narrow  shelf 
a  few  feet  farther  down.  Isom  had 
slipped  from  one  to  the  other,  they  said, 
and  in  his  last  struggle  had  rolled  over 
into  Dead  Creek,  and  had  been  swept  into 
the  Cumberland. 

It  was  Crump  who  had  warned  the 
Braytons.  Nobody  ever  knew  how  he  had 
learned  Steve  Marcum's  purpose.  And 
old  Brayton  on  his  guard  and  in  his  own 
cabin  was  impregnable.  So  the  Marcums, 

[137] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


after  a  harmless  fusillade,  had  turned  back 
cursing.  Mocking  shouts  followed  after 
them,  pistol-shots,  even  the  scraping  of  a 
fiddle  and  shuffling  on  the  ledge.  But 
they  kept  on,  cursing  across  the  river  and 
back  to  Daddy  Marcum,  who  was  stand 
ing  in  the  porch,  peering  for  them 
through  the  dawn,  with  a  story  to  tell 
about  Isom. 

uThe  critter  was  teched  in  the  head," 
the  old  man  said,  and  this  was  what  the 
Braytons  too  believed.  But  Steve  Mar 
cum,  going  to  search  for  Isom's  body  next 
day,  gave  old  Gabe  another  theory.  He 
told  the  miller  how  Daddy  Marcum  had 
called  Isom  a  coward,  and  Steve  said  the 
boy  had  gone  ahead  to  prove  he  was  no 
coward. 

uHe  had  mighty  leetle  call  to  prove  it 
to  me.  Think  o'  his  takin'  ole  Brayton  all 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


by  hisself!"  he  said,  with  a  look  at  the 
yellow  heaving  Cumberland.  "  'N',  Lord ! 
think  o'  his  swimmin'  that  river  in  the 
dark!" 

Old  Gabe  asked  a  question  fiercely  then 
and  demanded  the  truth,  and  Steve  told 
him  about  the  hand-to-hand  fight  on  the 
mountain-side,  about  young  Jasper's 
treachery,  and  how  the  boy,  who  was 
watching  the  fight,  fired  just  in  time  to  save 
Rome.  It  made  all  plain  at  last — Rome's 
and  Steve's  denials,  Isom's  dinning  on  that 
one  theme,  and  why  the  boy  could  not  go 
to  Rome  and  face  Martha,  with  her  own 
blood  on  his  hands.  Isom's  true  motive, 
too,  was  plain,  and  the  miller  told  it 
brokenly  to  Steve,  who  rode  away  with  a 
low  whistle  to  tell  it  broadcast,  and  left 
the  old  man  rocking  his  body  like  a 
woman. 

[  139] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


An  hour  later  he  rode  back  at  a  gallop 
to  tell  old  Gabe  to  search  the  river  bank 
below  the  mill.  He  did  not  believe  Isom 
dead.  It  was  just  his  "feelin',"  he  said, 
and  one  fact,  that  nobody  else  thought  im 
portant — the  Brayton  canoe  was  gone. 

UE£  he  was  jus'  scamped  by  a  ball,'* 
said  Steve,  uyou  kin  bet  he  tuk  the  boat, 
'n'  he's  down  thar  in  the  bushes  somewhar 
now  waitin'  fer  dark." 

And  about  dusk,  sure  enough,  old  Gabe, 
wandering  hopefully  through  the  thicket 
below  the  mill,  stumbled  over  the  canoe 
stranded  in  the  bushes.  In  the  new  mud 
were  the  tracks  of  a  boy's  bare  feet  lead 
ing  into  the  thicket,  and  the  miller  made 
straight  for  home.  When  he  opened  his 
door  he  began  to  shake  as  if  with  palsy. 
A  figure  was  seated  on  the  hearth  against 
the  chimney,  and  the  firelight  was  playing 
[  140] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


over  the  face  and  hair.  The  lips  were 
parted,  and  the  head  hung  limply  to  the 
breast.  The  clothes  were  torn  to  rags, 
and  one  shoulder  was  bare.  Through  the 
upper  flesh  of  it  and  close  to  the  neck  was 
an  ugly  burrow  clotted  with  blood.  The 
boy  was  asleep. 

Three  nights  later,  in  Hazlan,  Sherd 
Raines  told  the  people  of  Isom's  flight 
down  the  mountain,  across  the  river,  and 
up  the  steep  to  save  his  life  by  losing  it. 
Before  he  was  done,  one  gray-headed  figure 
pressed  from  the  darkness  on  one  side  and 
stood  trembling  under  the  dips.  It  was 
old  Steve  Brayton,  who  had  fired  from 
the  cabin  at  Isom,  and  dropping  his  Win 
chester,  he  stumbled  forward  with  the  butt 
of  his  pistol  held  out  to  Raines.  A  Mar- 
cum  appeared  on  the  other  side  with  the 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


more'n  a  year  ago,  when  Rome  Stetson 
V  Marthy  Lewallen  went  a-gallivantin' 
out'n  the  mountains  together.  Hyeh's  an 
other  flood,  'n'  old  Gabe's  dugout  gone 
agin."  The  miller  raised  a  covert  glance 
of  suspicion  from  under  his  hat,  but  the 
Marcum  was  laughing.  uYe  oughter  put 
a  trace-chain  on  this  'un,"  he  added.  "A 
rope  gits  rotten  in  the  water,  'n'  a  tide  is 
mighty  apt  to  break  it." 

Old  Gabe  said  that  "mebbe  that  wus 
so,"  but  he  had  no  chain  to  waste;  he 
reckoned  a  rope  was  strong  enough,  and 
he  started  home. 

"Old  Gabe  don't  seem  to  keer  much  now 
'bout  Isom,"  said  the  Brayton.  "Folks 
say  he  tuk  on  so  awful  at  fust  that  hit 
looked  like  he  wus  goin'  crazy.  He's  git- 
tin'  downright  peert  again.  Hello !" 

Bud  Vickers  was  carrying  a  piece  of 
[  J44] 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


news  down  to  Hazlan,  and  he  pulled  up 
his  horse  to  deliver  it.  Aunt  Sally  Day's 
dog  had  been  seen  playing  in  the  Breathitt 
road  with  the  frame  of  a  human  foot. 
Some  boys  had  found  not  far  away,  behind 
a  withered  "blind,"  a  heap  of  rags  and 
bones.  Eli  Crump  had  not  been  seen  in 
Hazlan  since  the  night  of  the  Brayton 
raid. 

"Well,  ef  hit  was  Eli,"  said  the  Bray- 
ton,  waggishly,  "we're  all  goin'  to  be 
saved.  Eli's  case  '11  come  fust,  an'  ef 
thar's  only  one  Jedgment  day,  the  Lord  '11 
nuver  git  to  us." 

The  three  chuckled,  while  old  Gabe  sat 
dreaming  at  his  gate.  The  boy  had  lain 
quiet  during  the  weeks  of  his  getting  well, 
absorbed  in  one  aim — to  keep  hidden  until 
he  was  strong  enough  to  get  to  Rome.  On 
the  last  night  the  miller  had  raised  one  of 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


the  old  hearth-stones  and  had  given  him 
the  hire  of  many  years.  At  daybreak  the 
lad  drifted  away.  Now  old  Gabe  was  fol 
lowing  him  down  the  river  and  on  to  the 
dim  mountain  line,  where  the  boy's  figure 
was  plain  for  a  moment  against  the  sky, 
and  then  was  lost. 

The  clouds  in  the  west  had  turned  gray 
and  the  crescent  had  broken  the  gloom  of 
the  woods  into  shadows  when  the  miller 
rose.  One  star  was  coming  over  Black 
Mountain  from  the  east.  It  was  the  Star 
of  Bethlehem  to  old  Gabe;  and,  star-like 
on  both  sides  of  the  Cumberland,  answer 
ing  fires  from  cabin  hearths  were  giving 
back  its  message  at  last. 

"Thar  hain't  nothin'  to  hender  Rome 
'n'  Marthy  now.  I  nuver  knowed  any 
body  to  stay  'way  from  these  mount'ins  ef 
he  could  git  back;  'n'  Isom  said  he'd  fetch 


THE    LAST    STETSON 


'em.     Thar    hain't    nothin'    to    hender — 
nothin'  now." 

On  the  stoop  of  the  cabin  the  miller 
turned  to  look  again,  and  then  on  the  last 
Stetson  the  door  was  closed. 


[147] 


THE    PARDON    OF    BECKY    DAY 


THE    PARDON    OF    BECKY    DAY 

THE  missionary  was  young  and  she 
was  from  the  North.  Her  brows 
were  straight,  her  nose  was  rather  high, 
and  her  eyes  were  clear  and  gray.  The 
upper  lip  of  her  little  mouth  was  so  short 
that  the  teeth  just  under  it  were  never  quite 
concealed.  It  was  the  mouth  of  a  child 
and  it  gave  the  face,  with  all  its  strength 
and  high  purpose,  a  peculiar  pathos  that 
no  soul  in  that  little  mountain  town  had 
the  power  to  see  or  feel.  A  yellow  mule 
was  hitched  to  the  rickety  fence  in  front 
of  her  and  she  stood  on  the  stoop  of  a  little 
white  frame-house  with  an  elm  switch  be 
tween  her  teeth  arid  gloves  on  her  hands, 


THE    PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

which  were  white  and  looked  strong.  The 
mule  wore  a  man's  saddle,  but  no  matter — 
the  streets  were  full  of  yellow  pools,  the 
mud  was  ankle-deep,  and  she  was  on  her 
way  to  the  sick-bed  of  Becky  Day. 

There  was  a  flood  that  morning.  All 
the  preceding  day  the  rains  had  drenched 
the  high  slopes  unceasingly.  That  night, 
the  rain-clear  forks  of  the  Kentucky  got 
yellow  and  rose  high,  and  now  they 
crashed  together  around  the  town  and, 
after  a  heaving  conflict,  started  the  river 
on  one  quivering,  majestic  sweep  to  the 
sea. 

Nobody  gave  heed  that  the  girl  rode  a 
mule  or  that  the  saddle  was  not  her  own, 
and  both  facts  she  herself  quickly  forgot. 
This  half  log,  half  frame  house  on  a  cor 
ner  had  stood  a  siege  once.  She  could  yet 
see  bullet  holes  about  the  door.  Through 


THE   PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

this  window,  a  revenue  officer  from  the 
Blue  Grass  had  got  a  bullet  in  the  shoul 
der  from  a  garden  in  the  rear.  Standing 
in  the  post-office  door  only  just  one  month 
before,  she  herself  had  seen  children  scur 
rying  like  rabbits  through  the  back-yard 
fences,  men  running  silently  here  and  there, 
men  dodging  into  doorways,  fire  flashing 
in  the  street  and  from  every  house — 
and  not  a  sound  but  the  crack  of  pistol  and 
Winchester;  for  the  mountain  men  deal 
death  in  all  the  terrible  silence  of  death. 
And  now  a  preacher  with  a  long  scar 
across  his  forehead  had  come  to  the  one 
little  church  in  the  place  and  the  fervor  of 
religion  was  struggling  with  feudal  hate 
for  possession  of  the  town.  To  the  girl, 
who  saw  a  symbol  in  every  mood  of  the 
earth,  the  passions  of  these  primitive  people 
were  like  the  treacherous  streams  of  the 

[153] 


THE    PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

uplands — now  quiet  as  sunny  skies  and 
now  clashing  together  with  but  little  less 
fury  and  with  much  more  noise.  And  the 
roar  of  the  flood  above  the  wind  that  late 
afternoon  was  the  wrath  of  the  Father, 
that  with  the  peace  of  the  Son  so  long  on 
earth,  such  things  still  could  be.  Once 
more  trouble  was  threatening  and  that  day 
even  she  knew  that  trouble  might  come, 
but  she  rode  without  fear,  for  she  went 
when  and  where  she  pleased  as  any  woman 
can,  throughout  the  Cumberland,  without 
insult  or  harm. 

At  the  end  of  the  street  were  two  houses 
that  seemed  to  front  each  other  with  un 
mistakable  enmity.  In  them  were  two  men 
who  had  wounded  each  other  only  the  day 
before,  and  who  that  day  would  lead  the 
factions,  if  the  old  feud  broke  loose  again. 
One  house  was  close  to  the  frothing  hem 

[154] 


THE    PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

of  the  flood — a  log-hut  with  a  shed  of 
rough  boards  for  a  kitchen — the  home  of 
Becky  Day. 

The  other  was  across  the  way  and  was 
framed  and  smartly  painted.  On  the  steps 
sat  a  woman  with  her  head  bare  and  her 
hands  under  her  apron — widow  of  the 
Marcum  whose  death  from  a  bullet  one 
month  before  had  broken  the  long  truce 
of  the  feud.  A  groaning  curse  was 
growled  from  the  window  as  the  girl  drew 
near,  and  she  knew  it  came  from  a  wound 
ed  Marcum  who  had  lately  come  back 
from  the  West  to  avenge  his  brother's 
death. 

"Why  don't  you  go  over  to  see  your 
neighbor?"  The  girl's  clear  eyes  gave  no 
hint  that  she  knew — as  she  well  did — the 
trouble  between  the  houses,  and  the  widow 
stared  in  sheer  amazement,  for  mountain- 

[155] 


THE   PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

eers  do  not  talk  with  strangers  of  the  quar 
rels  between  them. 

"I  have  nothin'  to  do  with  such  as  her," 
she  said,  sullenly;  "she  ain't  the  kind " 

"Don't!"  said  the  girl,  with  a  flush, 
"she's  dying." 

"Dyin't" 

"Yes."  With  the  word  the  girl  sprang 
from  the  mule  and  threw  the  reins  over 
the  pale  of  the  fence  in  front  of  the  log- 
hut  across  the  way.  In  the  doorway  she 
turned  as  though  she  would  speak  to  the 
woman  on  the  steps  again,  but  a  tall  man 
with  a  black  beard  appeared  in  the  low 
door  of  the  kitchen-shed. 

"How  is  your — how  is  Mrs.  Day?" 

"Mighty  puny  this  mornin' — Becky  is." 

The  girl  slipped  into  the  dark  room. 
On  a  disordered,  pillowless  bed  lay  a  white 
face  with  eyes  closed  and  mouth  slightly 


THE    PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

open.  Near  the  bed  was  a  low  wood  fire. 
On  the  hearth  were  several  thick  cups  filled 
with  herbs  and  heavy  fluids  and  covered 
with  tarpaulin,  for  Becky's  "man"  was  a 
teamster.  With  a  few  touches  of  the  girl's 
quick  hands,  the  covers  of  the  bed  were 
smooth,  and  the  woman's  eyes  rested  on 
the  girl's  own  cloak.  With  her  own  hand 
kerchief  she  brushed  the  death-damp  from 
the  forehead  that  already  seemed  growing 
cold.  At  her  first  touch,  the  woman's  eye 
lids  opened  and  dropped  together  again. 
Her  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from 
them. 

In  a  moment  the  ashes  disappeared,  the 
hearth  was  clean  and  the  fire  was  blazing. 
Every  time  the  girl  passed  the  window  she 
saw  the  widow  across  the  way  staring  hard 
at  the  hut.  When  she  took  the  ashes  into 
the  street,  the  woman  spoke  to  her. 

[is?] 


THE   PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 


'I   can't   go  to   see   Becky — she   hates 


me." 


"With  good  reason." 

The  answer  came  with  a  clear  sharpness 
that  made  the  widow  start  and  redden 
angrily;  but  the  girl  walked  straight  to 
the  gate,  her  eyes  ablaze  with  all  the  cour 
age  that  the  mountain  woman  knew  and 
yet  with  another  courage  to  which  the 
primitive  creature  was  a  stranger  —  a 
courage  that  made  the  widow  lower  her 
own  eyes  and  twist  her  hands  under  her 
apron. 

"I  want  you  to  come  and  ask  Becky  to 
forgive  you." 

The  woman  stared  and  laughed. 

"Forgive  me?  Becky  forgive  me?  She 
wouldn't — an'  I  don't  want  her — "  She 
could  not  look  up  into  the  girl's  eyes;  but 
she  pulled  a  pipe  from  under  the  apron, 


THE   PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

laid  it  down  with  a  trembling  hand  and 
began  to  rock  slightly. 

The  girl  leaned  across  the  gate. 

"Look  at  me!"  she  said,  sharply.  The 
woman  raised  her  eyes,  swerved  them  once, 
and  then  in  spite  of  herself,  held  them 
steady. 

"Listen!  Do  you  want  a  dying  wom 
an's  curse?" 

It  was  a  straight  thrust  to  the  core  of 
a  superstitious  heart  and  a  spasm  of  terror 
crossed  the  woman's  face.  She  began  to 
wring  her  hands. 

"Come  on!"  said  the  girl,  sternly,  and 
turned,  without  looking  back,  until  she 
reached  the  door  of  the  hut,  where  she 
beckoned  and  stood  waiting,  while  the 
woman  started  slowly  and  helplessly  from 
the  steps,  still  wringing  her  hands.  Inside, 
behind  her,  the  wounded  Marcum,  who 
[159] 


THE   PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

had  been  listening,  raised  himself  on  one 
elbow  and  looked  after  her  through  the 
window. 

"She  can't  come  in — not  while  I'm  in 
here." 

The  girl  turned  quickly.  It  was  Dave 
Day,  the  teamster,  in  the  kitchen  door, 
and  his  face  looked  blacker  than  his  beard. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  simply,  as  though  hurt, 
and  then  with  a  dignity  that  surprised  her, 
the  teamster  turned  and  strode  towards  the 
back  door. 

"But  I  can  git  out,  I  reckon,"  he  said, 
and  he  never  looked  at  the  widow  who  had 
stopped,  frightened,  at  the  gate. 

"Oh,  I  can't— I  can't!"  she  said,  and 
her  voice  broke ;  but  the  girl  gently  pushed 
her  to  the  door,  where  she  stopped  again, 
leaning  against  the  lintel.  Across  the  way, 
the  wounded  Marcum,  with  a  scowl  of 
[160] 


THE   PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

wonder,  crawled  out  of  his  bed  and  started 
painfully  to  the  door.  The  girl  saw  him 
and  her  heart  beat  fast. 

Inside,  Becky  lay  with  closed  eyes.  She 
stirred  uneasily,  as  though  she  felt  some 
hated  presence,  but  her  eyes  stayed  fast, 
for  the  presence  of  Death  in  the  room  was 
stronger  still. 

"Becky  I"  At  the  broken  cry,  Becky's 
eyes  flashed  wide  and  fire  broke  through 
the  haze  that  had  gathered  in  them. 

"I  want  ye  ter  fergive  me,  Becky.1' 

The  eyes  burned  steadily  for  a  long 
time.  For  two  days  she  had  not  spoken, 
but  her  voice  came  now,  as  though  from 
the  grave. 

"You  I"  she  said,  and,  again,  with  tor 
turing  scorn,  "You!"  And  then  she 
smiled,  for  she  knew  why  her  enemy  was 
there,  and  her  hour  of  triumph  was  come. 
[161] 


THE    PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

The  girl  moved  swiftly  to  the  window — 
she  could  see  the  wounded  Marcum  slowly 
crossing  the  street,  pistol  in  hand. 

"What'dleverdotoyou?" 

"Nothin',  Becky,  nothin'." 

Becky  laughed  harshly.  uYou  can  tell 
the  truth — can't  ye — to  a  dyin'  woman?" 

"Fergive  me,  Becky!" 

A  scowling  face,  tortured  with  pain,  was 
thrust  into  the  window. 

"Sh-h!"  whispered  the  girl,  imperiously, 
and  the  man  lifted  his  heavy  eyes,  dropped 
one  elbow  on  the  window-sill  and  waited. 

"You  tuk  Jim  from  me!" 

The  widow  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  the  Marcum  at  the  window — 
brother  to  Jim,  who  was  dead — lowered 
at  her,  listening  keenly. 

"An'  you  got  him  by  lyin'  'bout  me. 
You  tuk  him  by  lyin'  'bout  me — didn't 


THE    PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

ye?  Didn't  ye?"  she  repeated,  fiercely, 
and  her  voice  would  have  wrung  the  truth 
from  a  stone. 

"Yes— Becky— yes!" 

"You  hear?"  cried  Becky,  turning  her 
eyes  to  the  girl. 

"You  made  him  believe  an'  made 
ever'body,  you  could,  believe  that  I  was 
— was  bad."  Her  breath  got  short  but 
the  terrible  arraignment  went  on. 

"You  started  this  war.  My  brother 
wouldn't  'a'  shot  Jim  Marcum  if  it  hadn't 
been  fer  you.  You  killed  Jim — your  own 
husband — an'  you  killed  me.  An'  now 
you  want  me  to  fergive  you — you!"  She 
raised  her  right  hand  as  though  with  it  she 
would  hurl  the  curse  behind  her  lips,  and 
the  widow,  with  a  cry,  sprang  for  the  bony 
fingers,  catching  them  in  her  own  hand  and 
falling  over  on  her  knees  at  the  bedside. 


THE    PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

"Don't,    Becky,    don't— don't— don't!" 

There  was  a  slight  rustle  at  the  back 
window.  At  the  other,  a  pistol  flashed 
into  sight  and  dropped  again  below  the 
sill.  Turning,  the  girl  saw  Dave's  bushy 
black  head — he,  too,  with  one  elbow  on 
the  sill  and  the  other  hand  out  of  sight. 

"Shame  I"  she  said,  looking  from  one 
to  the  other  of  the  two  men,  who  had 
learned,  at  last,  the  bottom  truth  of  the 
feud;  and  then  she  caught  the  sick  wom 
an's  other  hand  and  spoke  quickly: 

"Hush,  Becky,"  she  said;  and  at  the 
touch  of  her  hand  and  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  Becky  looked  confusedly  at  her  and 
let  her  upraised  hand  sink  back  to  the  bed. 
The  widow  stared  swiftly  from  Jim's 
brother,  at  one  window,  to  Dave  Day  at 
the  other,  and  hid  her  face  on  her  arms. 

"Remember,   Becky — how  can  you  ex- 


THE   PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

pect  forgiveness  in  another  world,  unless 
you  forgive  in  this?" 

The  woman's  brow  knitted  and  she  lay 
quiet.  Like  the  widow  who  held  her  hand, 
the  dying  woman  believed,  with  never  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt,  that  somewhere  above 
the  stars,  a  living  God  reigned  in  a  heaven 
of  never-ending  happiness ;  that  somewhere 
beneath  the  earth  a  personal  devil  gloated 
over  souls  in  eternal  torture;  that  whether 
she  went  above,  or  below,  hung  solely  on 
her  last  hour  of  contrition;  and  that  in 
heaven  or  hell  she  would  know  those  whom 
she  might  meet  as  surely  as  she  had 
known  them  on  earth.  By  and  by  her 
face  softened  and  she  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Jim  was  a  good  man,"  she  said.  And 
then  after  a  moment: 

"An'  I  was  a  good  woman" — she  turned 
her  eyes  towards  the  girl — "until  Jim 


THE    PARDON    OF   BECKY   DAY 

married  her.  I  didn't  keer  after  that." 
Then  she  got  calm,  and  while  she  spoke 
to  the  widow,  she  looked  at  the  girl. 

uWill  you  git  up  in  church  an7  say  be 
fore  everybody  that  you  knew  I  was  good 
when  you  said  I  was  bad — that  you  lied 
about  me?" 

"Yes— yes."  Still  Becky  looked  at  the 
girl,  who  stooped  again. 

"She  wrll,  Becky,  I  know  she  will. 
Won't  you  forgive  her  and  leave  peace  be 
hind  you?  Dave  and  Jim's  brother  are 
here — make  them  shake  hands.  Won't 
you — won't  you?"  she  asked,  turning  from 
one  to  the  other. 

Both  men  were  silent. 

"Won't  you?"  she  repeated,  looking  at 
Jim's  brother. 

"I've  got  nothin'  ag\i  Dave.  I  always 
thought  that  she" — he  did  not  call  his 
[166] 


THE    PARDON    OF    BECKY   DAY 

brother's  wife  by  name — "caused  all  this 
trouble.     I've  nothin'  agin  Dave." 

The  girl  turned.  "Won't  you,  Dave?" 
"I'm  waitin'  to  hear  whut  Becky  says." 
Becky  was  listening,  though  her  eyes 
were  closed.  Her  brows  knitted  painfully. 
It  was  a  hard  compromise  that  she  was 
asked  to  make  between  mortal  hate  and 
a  love  that  was  more  than  mortal,  but  the 
Plea  that  has  stood  between  them  for 
nearly  twenty  centuries  prevailed,  and  the 
girl  knew  that  the  end  of  the  feud  was 
nigh. 

Becky  nodded. 

"Yes,  I  fergive  her,  an'  I  want  'em  to 
shake  hands." 

But  not  once  did  she  turn  her  eyes  to 
the  woman  whom  she  forgave,  and  the 
hand  that  the  widow  held  gave  back  no 
answering  pressure.  The  faces  at  the  win- 


THE    PARDON    OF    BECKY   DAY 

dows  disappeared,  and  she  motioned  for 
the  girl  to  take  her  weeping  enemy  away. 

She  did  not  open  her  eyes  when  the  girl 
came  back,  but  her  lips  moved  and  the 
girl  bent  above  her. 

"I  know  whar  Jim  is." 

From  somewhere  outside  came  Dave's 
cough,  and  the  dying  woman  turned  her 
head  as  though  she  were  reminded  of 
something  she  had  quite  forgotten.  Then, 
straightway,  she  forgot  again. 

The  voice  of  the  flood  had  deepened. 
A  smile  came  to  Becky's  lips — a  faint,  ter 
rible  smile  of  triumph.  The  girl  bent  low 
and,  with  a  startled  face,  shrank  back. 

«An'  I'll— git— thar— first." 

With  that  whisper  went  Becky's  last 
breath,  but  the  smile  was  there,  even  when 
her  lips  were  cold. 

[168] 


A   CRISIS   FOR   THE   GUARD 


A    CRISIS    FOR   THE    GUARD 

THE  tutor  was  from  New  England, 
and  he  was  precisely  what  passes, 
with  Southerners,  as  typical.  He  was  thin, 
he  wore  spectacles,  he  talked  dreamy  ab 
stractions,  and  he  looked  clerical.  Indeed, 
his  ancestors  had  been  clergymen  for  gen 
erations,  and,  by  nature  and  principle,  he 
was  an  apostle  of  peace  and  a  non-com 
batant.  He  had  just  come  to  the  Gap — 
a  cleft  in  the  Cumberland  Mountains — 
to  prepare  two  young  Blue  Grass  Ken- 
tuckians  for  Harvard.  The  railroad  was 
still  thirty  miles  away,  and  he  had  travelled 
mule-back  through  mudholes,  on  which,  as 
the  joke  ran,  a  traveller  was  supposed  to 
leave  his  card  before  he  entered  and  dis 
appeared — that  his  successor  might  not  un- 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

knowingly  press  him  too  hard.  I  do  know 
that,  in  those  mudholes,  mules  were  some 
times  drowned.  The  tutor's  gray  mule  fell 
over  a  bank  with  him,  and  he  would  have 
gone  back  had  he  not  feared  what  was  be 
hind  more  than  anything  that  was  possible 
ahead.  He  was  mud-bespattered,  sore, 
tired  and  dispirited  when  he  reached  the 
Gap,  but  still  plucky  and  full  of  business. 
He  wanted  to  see  his  pupils  at  once  and 
arrange  his  schedule.  They  came  in  after 
supper,  and  I  had  to  laugh  when  I  saw  his 
mild  eyes  open.  The  boys  were  only  fif 
teen  and  seventeen,  but  each  had  around 
him  a  huge  revolver  and  a  belt  of  cart 
ridges,  which  he  unbuckled  and  laid  on  the 
table  after  shaking  hands.  The  tutor's 
shining  glasses  were  raised  to  me  for  light. 
I  gave  it:  my  brothers  had  just  come  in 
from  a  little  police  duty,  I  explained. 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

Everybody  was  a  policeman  at  the  Gap, 
I  added;  and,  naturally,  he  still  looked 
puzzled;  but  he  began  at  once  to  question 
the  boys  about  their  studies,  and,  in  an 
hour,  he  had  his  daily  schedule  mapped 
out  and  submitted  to  me.  I  had  to  cover 
my  mouth  with  my  hand  when  I  came  to 
one  item — "Exercise:  a  walk  of  half  an 
hour  every  Wednesday  afternoon  between 
five  and  six" — for  the  younger,  known 
since  at  Harvard  as  the  colonel,  and  known 
then  at  the  Gap  as  the  Infant  of  the  Guard, 
winked  most  irreverently.  As  he  had  just 
come  back  from  a  ten-mile  chase  down  the 
valley  on  horseback  after  a  bad  butcher, 
and  as  either  was  apt  to  have  a  like  experi 
ence  any  and  every  day,  I  was  not  afraid 
they  would  fail  to  get  exercise  enough;  so 
I  let  that  item  of  the  tutor  pass. 

The  tutor  slept  in  my  room  that  night, 

[173] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

and  my  four  brothers,  the  eldest  of  whom 
was  a  lieutenant  on  the  police  guard,  in  a 
room  across  the  hallway.  I  explained  to 
the  tutor  that  there  was  much  lawlessness 
in  the  region;  that  we  "foreigners"  were 
trying  to  build  a  town,  and  that,  to  ensure 
law  and  order,  we  had  all  become  volun 
teer  policemen.  He  seemed  to  think  it  was 
most  interesting. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  a 
shrill  whistle  blew,  and,  from  habit,  I 
sprang  out  of  bed.  I  had  hardly  struck 
the  floor  when  four  pairs  of  heavy  boots 
thundered  down  the  stairs  just  outside  the 
door,  and  I  heard  a  gasp  from  the  startled 
tutor.  He  was  bolt  upright  in  bed,  and 
his  face  in  the  moonlight  was  white  with 
fear. 

uWha— wha— what's  that?" 
I  told  him  that  it  was  a  police  whistle  and 

[174] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

that  the  boys  were  answering  it.  Every 
body  jumped  when  he  heard  a  whistle,  I 
explained;  for  nobody  in  town  was  permit 
ted  to  blow  one  except  a  policeman.  I 
guessed  there  would  be  enough  men  an 
swering  that  whistle  without  me,  however, 
and  I  slipped  back  into  bed. 

"Well,"  he  said;  and  when  the  boys 
lumbered  upstairs  again  and  one  shouted 
through  the  door,  "All  right!"  the  tutor 
said  again  with  emphasis:  "Well!" 

Next  day  there  was  to  be  a  political 
gathering  at  the  Gap.  A  Senator  was  try 
ing  to  lift  himself  by  his  own  boot-straps 
into  the  Governor's  chair.  He  was  going  to 
make  a  speech,  there  would  be  a  big  and 
unruly  crowd,  and  it  would  be  a  crucial 
day  for  the  Guard.  So,  next  morning,  I 
suggested  to  the  tutor  that  it  would  be 
unwise  for  him  to  begin  work  with  his 

[175] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

pupils  that  day,  for  the  reason  that  he  was 
likely  to  be  greatly  interrupted  and  often. 
He  thought,  however,  he  would  like  to 
begin.  He  did  begin,  and  within  half  an 
hour  Gordon,  the  town  sergeant,  thrust  his 
head  inside  the  door  and  called  the  colonel 
by  name. 

"Come  on,"  he  said;  "they're  going  to 
try  that  d — n  butcher."  And  seeing  from 
the  tutor's  face  that  he  had  done  something 
dreadful,  he  slammed  the  door  in  apolo 
getic  confusion.  The  tutor  was  law-abid 
ing,  and  it  was  the  law  that  called  the 
colonel,  and  so  the  tutor  let  him  go — nay, 
went  with  him  and  heard  the  case.  The 
butcher  had  gone  off  on  another  man's 
horse — the  man  owed  him  money,  he  said, 
and  the  only  way  he  could  get  his  money 
was  to  take  the  horse  as  security.  But  the 
sergeant  did  not  know  this,  and  he  and  the 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

colonel  rode  after  him,  and  the  colonel, 
having  the  swifter  horse,  but  not  having 
had  time  to  get  his  own  pistol,  took  the 
sergeant's  and  went  ahead.  He  fired  quite 
close  to  the  running  butcher  twice,  and  the 
butcher  thought  it  wise  to  halt.  When  he 
saw  the  child  who  had  captured  him  he 
was  speechless,  and  he  got  off  his  horse 
and  cut  a  big  switch  to  give  the  colonel  a 
whipping,  but  the  doughty  Infant  drew 
down  on  him  again  and  made  him  ride, 
foaming  with  rage,  back  to  town.  The 
butcher  was  good-natured  at  the  trial, 
however,  and  the  tutor  heard  him  say, 
with  a  great  guffaw: 

"An'  I  do  believe  the  d — n  little  fool 
would  'a'  shot  me." 

Once  more  the  tutor  looked  at  the  pupil 
whom  he  was  to  lead  into  the  classic  halls 
of  Harvard,  and  once  more  he  said: 

[177] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

"Well!" 

People  were  streaming  into  town  now, 
and  I  persuaded  the  tutor  that  there  was 
no  use  for  him  to  begin  his  studies  again. 
He  said  he  would  go  fishing  down  the  river 
and  take  a  swim.  He  would  get  back  in 
time  to  hear  the  speaking  in  the  afternoon. 
So  I  got  him  a  horse,  and  he  came  out 
with  a  long  cane  fishing-pole  and  a  pair  of 
saddle-bags.  I  told  him  that  he  must 
watch  the  old  nag  or  she  would  run  away 
with  him,  particularly  when  he  started 
homeward.  The  tutor  was  not  much  of  a 
centaur.  The  horse  started  as  he  was 
throwing  the  wrong  leg  over  his  sad 
dle,  and  the  tutor  clamped  his  rod 
under  one  arm,  clutching  for  the  reins  with 
both  hands  and  kicking  for  his  stirrups 
with  both  feet.  The  tip  of  the  limber  pole 
beat  the  horse's  flank  gently  as  she  struck 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

a  trot,  and  smartly  as  she  struck  into  a 
lope,  and  so  with  arms,  feet,  saddle- 
pockets,  and  fishing-rod  flapping  towards 
different  points  of  the  compass,  the  tutor 
passed  out  of  sight  over  Poplar  Hill  on 
a  dead  run. 

As  soon  as  he  could  get  over  a  fit  of 
laughter  and  catch  his  breath,  the  colonel 
asked : 

"Do  you  know  what  he  had  in  those 
saddle-pockets  ?" 

"No." 

"A  bathing  suit,"  he  shouted;  and  he 
went  off  again. 

Not  even  in  a  primeval  forest,  it  seemed, 
would  the  modest  Puritan  bare  his  body 
to  the  mirror  of  limpid  water  and  the 
caress  of  mountain  air. 

***** 

The    trouble    had    begun    early    that 
[  179] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

morning,  when  Gordon,  the  town  sergeant, 
stepped  from  his  door  and  started  down  the 
street  with  no  little  self-satisfaction.  He 
had  been  arraying  himself  for  a  full  hour, 
and  after  a  tub-bath  and  a  shave  he 
stepped,  spic  and  span,  into  the  street  with 
his  head  steadily  held  high,  except  when 
he  bent  it  to  look  at  the  shine  of  his  boots, 
which  was  the  work  of  his  own  hands,  and 
of  which  he  was  proud.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  the  sergeant  felt  that  he  looked  just 
as  he  particularly  wanted  to  look  on  that 
day — his  best.  Gordon  was  a  native  of 
Wise,  but  that  day  a  girl  was  coming  from 
Lee,  and  he  was  ready  for  her. 

Opposite  the  Intermont,  a  pistol-shot 
cracked  from  Cherokee  Avenue,  and  from 
habit  he  started  that  way.  Logan,  the 
captain  of  the  Guard — the  leading  lawyer 
in  that  part  of  the  State — was  ahead  of 
[180] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

him,  however,  and  he  called  to  Gordon  to 
follow.  Gordon  ran  in  the  grass  along 
the  road  to  keep  those  boots  out  of  the 
dust.  Somebody  had  fired  off  his  pistol 
for  fun  and  was  making  tracks  for  the 
river.  As  they  pushed  the  miscreant  close, 
he  dashed  into  the  river  to  wade  across. 
It  was  a  very  cold  morning,  and  Gordon 
prayed  that  the  captain  was  not  going  to 
be  such  a  fool  as  to  follow  the  fellow 
across  the  river.  He  should  have  known 
better. 

"In  with  you,"  said  the  captain  quietly, 
and  the  mirror  of  the  shining  boots  was 
dimmed,  and  the  icy  water  chilled  the  ser 
geant  to  the  knees  and  made  him  so  mad 
that  he  flashed  his  pistol  and  told  the  run 
away  to  halt,  which  he  did  in  the  middle 
of  the  stream.  It  was  Richards,  the  tough 
from  "the  Pocket,"  and,  as  he  paid  his 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

fine  promptly,  they  had  to  let  him  go. 
Gordon  went  back,  put  on  his  everyday 
clothes  and  got  his  billy  and  his  whistle 
and  prepared  to  see  the  maid  from  Lee 
when  his  duty  should  let  him.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  he  saw  her  but  once,  and  then 
he  was  not  made  happy. 

The  people  had  come  in  rapidly — giants 
from  the  Crab  Orchard,  mountaineers 
from  through  the  Gap,  and  from  Crack 
er's  Neck  and  Thunderstruck  Knob;  Val 
ley  people  from  Little  Stone  Gap,  from 
the  furnace  site  and  Bum  Hollow  and 
Wildcat,  and  people  from  Lee,  from  Tur 
key  Cove,  and  from  the  Pocket — the 
much-dreaded  Pocket — far  down  in  the 
river  hills. 

They  came  on  foot  and  on  horseback, 
and  left  their  horses  in  the  bushes  and 
crowded  the  streets  and  filled  the  saloon 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

of  one  Jack  Woods — who  had  the  cackling 
laugh  of  Satan  and  did  not  like  the  Guard, 
for  good  reasons,  and  whose  particular 
pleasure  was  to  persuade  some  customer  to 
stir  up  a  hornet's  nest  of  trouble.  From 
the  saloon  the  crowd  moved  up  towards 
the  big  spring  at  the  foot  of  Imboden 
Hill,  where,  under  beautiful  trunk-mottled 
beeches,  was  built  the  speakers'  platform. 

Precisely  at  three  o'clock  the  local  ora 
tor,  much  flurried,  rose,  ran  his  hand 
through  his  long  hair  and  looked  in  silence 
over  the  crowd. 

"Fellow  citizens !  There's  beauty  in  the 
stars  of  night  and  in  the  glowin'  orb  of 
day.  There's  beauty  in  the  rollin'  meadow 
and  in  the  quiet  stream.  There's  beauty 
in  the  smilin'  valley  and  in  the  everlastin' 
hills.  Therefore,  fellow  citizens — THERE 
FORE,  fellow  citizens,  allow  me  to  intro- 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

duce  to  you  the  future  Governor  of  these 
United  States — Senator  William  Bay- 
hone."  And  he  sat  down  with  such  a 
beatific  smile  of  self-satisfaction  that  a 
fiend  would  not  have  had  the  heart  to  say 
he  had  not  won. 

Now,  there  are  wandering  minstrels  yet 
in  the  Cumberland  Hills.  They  play 
fiddles  and  go  about  making  up  "ballets" 
that  involve  local  history.  Sometimes  they 
make  a  pretty  good  verse — this,  for  in 
stance,  about  a  feud: 

The  death  of  these  two  men 

Caused  great  trouble  in  our  land. 
Caused  men  to  leave  their  families 

And  take  the  parting  hand. 
Retaliation,  still  at  war, 

May  never,  never  cease. 
I  would  that  I  could  only  see 

Our  land  once  more  at  peace. 

[i84] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

There  was  a  minstrel  out  in  the  crowd, 
and  pretty  soon  he  struck  up  his  fiddle  and 
his  lay,  and  he  did  not  exactly  sing  the 
virtues  of  Billy  Bayhone.  Evidently  some 
partisan  thought  he  ought,  for  he  smote 
him  on  the  thigh  with  the  toe  of  his  boot 
and  raised  such  a  stir  as  a  rude  stranger 
might  had  he  smitten  a  troubadour  in 
Arthur's  Court.  The  crowd  thickened  and 
surged,  and  four  of  the  Guard  emerged 
with  the  fiddler  and  his  assailant  under 
arrest.  It  was  as  though  the  Valley  were 
a  sheet  of  water  straightway  and  the  fid 
dler  the  dropping  of  a  stone,  for  the  ripple 
of  mischief  started  in  every  direction.  It 
caught  two  mountaineers  on  the  edge  of 
the  crowd,  who  for  no  particular  reason 
thumped  each  other  with  their  huge  fists, 
and  were  swiftly  led  away  by  that  silent 
Guard.  The  operation  of  a  mysterious 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

force  was  in  the  air  and  it  puzzled  the 
crowd.  Somewhere  a  whistle  would  blow, 
and,  from  this  point  and  that,  a  quiet,  well- 
dressed  young  man  would  start  swiftly 
toward  it.  The  crowd  got  restless  and 
uneasy,  and,  by  and  by,  experimental  and 
defiant.  For  in  that  crowd  was  the  spirit 
of  Bunker  Hill  and  King's  Mountain.  It 
couldn't  fiddle  and  sing;  it  couldn't  settle 
its  little  troubles  after  the  good  old  fash 
ion  of  fist  and  skull;  it  couldn't  charge  up 
and  down  the  streets  on  horseback  if  it 
pleased;  it  couldn't  ride  over  those  punch 
eon  sidewalks;  it  could't  drink  openly  and 
without  shame ;  and,  Shades  of  the  Ameri 
can  Eagle  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes,  it 
couldn't  even  yell!  No  wonder,  like  the 
heathen,  it  raged.  What  did  these  blanked 
"furriners"  have  against  them  anyhow? 
They  couldn't  run  their  country — not 

much-  [i  86] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

Pretty  soon  there  came  a  shrill  whistle 
far  down-town — then  another  and  another. 
It  sounded  ominous,  indeed,  and  it  was, 
being  a  signal  of  distress  from  the  Infant 
of  the  Guard,  who  stood  before  the  door 
of  Jack  Woods's  saloon  with  his  pistol 
levelled  on  Richards,  the  tough  from  the 
Pocket — the  Infant,  standing  there  with 
blazing  eyes,  alone  and  in  the  heart  of  a 
gathering  storm. 

Now  the  chain  of  lawlessness  that  had 
tightened  was  curious  and  significant. 
There  was  the  tough  and  his  kind — law 
less,  irresponsible  and  possible  in  any  com 
munity.  There  was  the  farm-hand  who 
had  come  to  town  with  the  wild  son  of  his 
employer — an  honest,  law-abiding  farmer. 
Came,  too,  a  friend  of  the  farmer  who 
had  not  yet  reaped  the  crop  of  wild  oats 
sown  in  his  youth.  Whiskey  ran  all  into 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

one  mould.  The  farm-hand  drank  with 
the  tough,  the  wild  son  with  the  farm 
hand,  and  the  three  drank  together,  and 
got  the  farmer's  unregenerate  friend  to 
drink  with  them ;  and  he  and  the  law-abid 
ing  farmer  himself,  by  and  by,  took  a  drink 
for  old  time's  sake.  Now  the  cardinal 
command  of  rural  and  municipal  districts 
all  through  the  South  is,  "Forsake  not  your 
friend" :  and  it  does  not  take  whiskey  long 
to  make  friends.  Jack  Woods  had  given 
the  tough  from  the  Pocket  a  whistle. 

"You  dassen't  blow  it,"  said  he. 

Richards  asked  why,  and  Jack  told  him. 
Straightway  the  tough  blew  the  whistle, 
and  when  the  little  colonel  ran  down  to  ar 
rest  him  he  laughed  and  resisted,  and  the 
wild  son  and  the  farm-hand  and  Jack 
Woods  showed  an  inclination  to  take  his 
part.  So,  holding  his  "drop"  on  the 
[188] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

tough  with  one  hand,  the  Infant  blew  vig 
orously  for  help  with  the  other. 

Logan,  the  captain,  arrived  first — he 
usually  arrived  first — and  Gordon,  the  ser 
geant,  was  by  his  side — Gordon  was  al 
ways  by  his  side.  He  would  have  stormed 
a  battery  if  the  captain  had  led  him,  and 
the  captain  would  have  led  him — alone — 
if  he  thought  it  was  his  duty.  Logan  was 
as  calm  as  a  stage  hero  at  the  crisis  of  a 
play.  The  crowd  had  pressed  close. 

"Take  that  man,"  he  said  sharply, 
pointing  to  the  tough  whom  the  colonel 
held  covered,  and  two  men  seized  him 
from  behind. 

The  farm-hand  drew  his  gun. 

uNo,  you  don't!"  he  shouted. 

"Take  him"  said  the  captain  quietly; 
and  he  was  seized  by  two  more  and  dis 
armed. 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

It  was  then  that  Sturgeon,  the  wild  son, 
ran  up. 

"You  can't  take  that  man  to  jail,"  he 
shouted  with  an  oath,  pointing  at  the  farm 
hand. 

The  captain  waved  his  hand.  "And 
him!" 

As  two  of  the  Guard  approached,  Stur 
geon  started  for  his  gun.  Now,  Sturgeon 
was  Gordon's  blood  cousin,  but  Gordon 
levelled  his  own  pistol.  Sturgeon's 
weapon  caught  in  his  pocket,  and  he  tried 
to  pull  it  loose.  The  moment  he  succeeded 
Gordon  stood  ready  to  fire.  Twice  the 
hammer  of  the  sergeant's  pistol  went  back 
almost  to  the  turning-point,  and  then,  as 
he  pulled  the  trigger  again,  Macfarlan, 
first  lieutenant,  who  once  played  lacrosse 
at  Yale,  rushed,  parting  the  crowd  right 
and  left,  and  dropped  his  billy  lightly 
[  190] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

three  times — right,  left  and  right — on 
Sturgeon's  head.  The  blood  spurted,  the 
head  fell  back  between  the  bully's  shoul 
ders,  his  grasp  on  his  pistol  loosened,  and 
he  sank  to  his  knees.  For  a  moment  the 
crowd  was  stunned  by  the  lightning  quick 
ness  of  it  all.  It  was  the  first  blow  ever 
struck  in  that  country  with  a  piece  of  wood 
in  the  name  of  the  law. 

"Take  'em  on,  boys,"  called  the  captain, 
whose  face  had  paled  a  little,  though  he 
seemed  as  cool  as  ever. 

And  the  boys  started,  dragging  the 
three  struggling  prisoners,  and  the  crowd, 
growing  angrier  and  angrier,  pressed  close 
behind,  a  hundred  of  them,  led  by  the 
farmer  himself,  a  giant  in  size,  and  beside 
himself  with  rage  and  humiliation.  Once 
he  broke  through  the  guard  line  and  was 
pushed  back.  Knives  and  pistols  began  to 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

flash  now  everywhere,  and  loud  threats  and 
curses  rose  on  all  sides — the  men  should 
not  be  taken  to  jail.  The  sergeant,  drag 
ging  Sturgeon,  looked  up  into  the  blazing 
eyes  of  a  girl  on  the  sidewalk,  Sturgeon's 
sister — the  maid  from  Lee.  The  sergeant 
groaned.  Logan  gave  some  order  just 
then  to  the  Infant,  who  ran  ahead,  and  by 
the  time  the  Guard  with  the  prisoners  had 
backed  to  a  corner  there  were  two  lines  of 
Guards  drawn  across  the  street.  The  first 
line  let  the  prisoners  and  their  captors 
through,  closed  up  behind,  and  backed 
slowly  towards  the  corner,  where  it  meant 
to  stand. 

It  was  very  exciting  there.  Winchesters 
and  shotguns  protruded  from  the  line 
threateningly,  but  the  mob  came  on  as 
though  it  were  going  to  press  through, 
and  determined  faces  blenched  with  ex- 


The  sergeant,  dragging  Sturgeon,  looked  up  into  the  blazing  eyes  of  a  girl  on 
the  sidewalk. 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

citement,  but  not  with  fear.  A  moment 
later,  the  little  colonel  and  the  Guards  on 
either  side  of  him  were  jabbing  at  men 
with  cocked  Winchesters.  At  that  mo 
ment  it  would  have  needed  but  one  shot 
to  ring  out  to  have  started  an  awful  car 
nage;  but  not  yet  was  there  a  man  in  the 
mob — and  that  is  the  trouble  with  mobs — 
who  seemed  willing  to  make  a  sacrifice  of 
himself  that  the  others  might  gain  their 
end.  For  one  moment  they  halted,  cursing 
and  waving  their  pistols,  preparing  for  a 
charge;  and  in  that  crucial  moment  the 
tutor  from  New  England  came  like  a 
thunderbolt  to  the  rescue.  Shrieks  of  ter 
ror  from  children,  shrieks  of  outraged 
modesty  from  women,  rent  the  air  down  the 
street  where  the  huddled  crowd  was  rush 
ing  right  and  left  in  wild  confusion,  and, 
through  the  parting  crowd,  the  tutor  flew 

[193] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

into  sight  on  horseback,  bareheaded,  bare 
footed,  clad  in  a  gaudily  striped  bathing 
suit,  with  his  saddle-pockets  flapping  be 
hind  him  like  wings.  Some  mischievous 
mountaineers,  seeing  him  in  his  bathing 
suit  on  the  point  of  a  rock  up  the  river, 
had  joyously  taken  a  pot-shot  or  two  at 
him,  and  the  tutor  had  mounted  his  horse 
and  fled.  But  he  came  as  welcome  and  as 
effective  as  an  emissary  straight  from  the 
God  of  Battles,  though  he  came  against  his 
will,  for  his  old  nag  was  frantic  and  was 
running  away.  Men,  women  and  children 
parted  before  him,  and  gaping  mouths 
widened  as  he  passed.  The  impulse  of  the 
crowd  ran  faster  than  his  horse,  and  even 
the  enraged  mountaineers  in  amazed  won 
der  sprang  out  of  his  way,  and,  far  in  the 
rear,  a  few  privileged  ones  saw  the  frantic 
horse  plunge  towards  his  stable,  stop  sud- 
[  194] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

denly,  and  pitch  his  mottled  rider  through 
the  door  and  mercifully  out  of  sight.  Hu 
man  purpose  must  give  way  when  a  pure 
miracle  comes  to  earth  to  baffle  it.  It  gave 
way  now  long  enough  to  let  the  oaken 
doors  of  the  calaboose  close  behind  tough, 
farm-hand,  and  the  farmer's  wild  son. 
The  line  of  Winchesters  at  the  corner 
quietly  gave  way.  The  power  of  the 
Guard  was  established,  the  backbone  of 
the  opposition  broken;  henceforth,  the 
work  for  law  and  order  was  to  be  easy 
compared  with  what  it  had  been.  Up  at 
the  big  spring  under  the  beeches  sat  the 
disgusted  orator  of  the  day  and  the  dis 
gusted  Senator,  who,  seriously,  was  quite 
sure  that  the  Guard,  being  composed  of 
Democrats,  had  taken  this  way  to  shatter 
his  campaign. 

***** 

[195] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

Next  morning,  in  court,  the  members 
of  the  Guard  acted  as  witnesses  against 
the  culprits.  Macfarlan  stated  that  he  had 
struck  Sturgeon  over  the  head  to  save  his 
life,  and  Sturgeon,  after  he  had  paid  his 
fine,  said  he  would  prefer  being  shot  to 
being  clubbed  to  death,  and  he  bore  dan 
gerous  malice  for  a  long  time,  until  he 
learned  what  everybody  else  knew,  that 
Macfarlan  always  did  what  he  thought  he 
ought,  and  never  spoke  anything  but  the 
literal  truth,  whether  it  hurt  friend,  foe  or 
himself. 

After  court,  Richards,  the  tough,  met 
Gordon,  the  sergeant,  in  the  road.  "Gor 
don,"  he  said,  "you  swore  to  a  lie 

about  me  a  while  ago." 

"How  do  you  want  to  fight?"  asked 
Gordon. 

"Fair!" 

[196] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

"Come  on;"  and  Gordon  started  for  the 
town  limits  across  the  river,  Richards  fol 
lowing  on  horseback.  At  a  store,  Gordon 
unbuckled  his  belt  and  tossed  his  pistol  and 
his  police  badge  inside.  Jack  Woods,  see 
ing  this,  followed,  and  the  Infant,  seeing 
Woods,  followed  too.  The  law  was  law, 
but  this  affair  was  personal,  and  would  be 
settled  without  the  limits  of  law  and  local 
obligation.  Richards  tried  to  talk  to  Gor 
don,  but  the  sergeant  walked  with  his  head 
down,  as  though  he  could  not  hear — he 
was  too  enraged  to  talk. 

While  Richards  was  hitching  his  horse 
in  the  bushes  the  sergeant  stood  on  the 
bank  of  the  river  with  his  arms  folded  and 
his  chin  swinging  from  side  to  side.  When 
he  saw  Richards  in  the  open  he  rushed  for 
him  like  a  young  bull  that  feels  the  first 
swelling  of  his  horns.  It  was  not  a  fair, 

[  197] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

stand-up,  knock-down  English  fight,  but  a 
Scotch  tussle,  in  which  either  could  strike, 
kick,  bite  or  gouge.  After  a  few  blows 
they  clinched  and  whirled  and  fell,  Gordon 
on  top — with  which  advantage  he  began 
to  pound  the  tough  from  the  Pocket  sav 
agely.  Woods  made  as  if  to  pull  him  off, 
but  the  Infant  drew  his  pistol.  "Keep 
off!" 

"He's  killing  him!"  shouted  Woods, 
halting. 

"Let  him  holler  'Enough,'  then,"  said 
the  Infant. 

"He's  killing  him !"  shouted  Woods. 

"Let  Gordon's  friends  take  him  off, 
then,"  said  the  Infant.  "Don't  you  touch 
him." 

And  it  was  done.  Richards  was  sense 
less  and  speechless — he  really  couldn't 
shout  "Enough."  But  he  was  content,  and 
the  day  left  a  very  satisfactory  impression 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

on  him  and  on  his  friends.  If  they  mis 
behaved  in  town  they  would  be  arrested: 
that  was  plain.  But  it  was  also  plain  that 
if  anybody  had  a  personal  grievance 
against  one  of  the  Guard  he  could  call  him 
out  of  the  town  limits  and  get  satisfaction, 
after  the  way  of  his  fathers.  There  was 
nothing  personal  at  all  in  the  attitude  of 
the  Guard  towards  the  outsiders;  which 
recognition  was  a  great  stride  toward 
mutual  understanding  and  final  high  re 
gard. 

All  that  day  I  saw  that  something  was 
troubling  the  tutor  from  New  England. 
It  was  the  Moral  Sense  of  the  Puritan  at 
work,  I  supposed,  and,  that  night,  when 
I  came  in  with  a  new  supply  of  "billies" 
and  gave  one  to  each  of  my  brothers,  the 
tutor  looked  up  over  his  glasses  and 
cleared  his  throat. 

"Now,"  said  I  to  myself,  "we  shall 
[  199] 


A    CRISIS    FOR    THE    GUARD 

catch  it  hot  on  the  savagery  of  the  South 
and  the  barbarous  Method  of  keeping  it 
down;"  but  before  he  had  said  three  words 
the  colonel  looked  as  though  he  were  going 
to  get  up  and  slap  the  little  dignitary  on 
the  back — which  would  have  created  a 
sensation  indeed. 

1 'Have  you  an  extra  one  of  those — 
those " 

"Billies?"  I  said,  wonderingly. 

"Yes.  I — I  believe  I  shall  join  the 
Guard  myself,"  said  the  tutor  from  New 
England. 


[  200  ] 


CHRISTMAS   NIGHT   WITH 
SATAN 


CHRISTMAS   NIGHT   WITH 
SATAN 

NO  night  was  this  in  Hades  with 
solemn-eyed  Dante,  for  Satan  was 
only  a  woolly  little  black  dog,  and  surely 
no  dog  was  ever  more  absurdly  misnamed. 
When  Uncle  Carey  first  heard  that  name, 
he  asked  gravely: 

"Why,  Dinnie,  where  in  h ,"  Uncle 

Carey  gulped  slightly,  "did  you  get  him?" 
And  Dinnie  laughed  merrily,  for  she  saw 
the  fun  of  the  question,  and  shook  her 
black  curls. 

"He  didn't  come  f'um  that  place" 
Distinctly    Satan    had   not    come    from 
that  place.     On  the  contrary,  he  might  by 
[203  ] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

a  miracle  have  dropped  straight  from 
some  Happy  Hunting-Ground,  for  all  the 
signs  he  gave  of  having  touched  pitch  in 
this  or  another  sphere.  Nothing  human 
was  ever  born  that  was  gentler,  merrier, 
more  trusting  or  more  lovable  than  Satan. 
That  was  why  Uncle  Carey  said  again 
gravely  that  he  could  hardly  tell  Satan 
and  his  little  mistress  apart.  He  rarely 
saw  them  apart,  and  as  both  had  black 
tangled  hair  and  bright  black  eyes;  as  one 
awoke  every  morning  with  a  happy  smile 
and  the  other  with  a  jolly  bark;  as  they 
played  all  day  like  wind-shaken  shadows 
and  each  won  every  heart  at  first  sight — 
the  likeness  was  really  rather  curious.  I 
have  always  believed  that  Satan  made  the 
spirit  of  Dinnie's  house,  orthodox  and 
severe  though  it  was,  almost  kindly  toward 
his  great  namesake.  I  know  I  have  never 
[204] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

been  able,  since  I  knew  little  Satan,  to 
think  old  Satan  as  bad  as  I  once  painted 
him,  though  I  am  sure  the  little  dog  had 
many  pretty  tricks  that  the  "old  boy" 
doubtless  has  never  used  in  order  to  amuse 
his  friends. 

"Shut  the  door,  Saty,  please,"  Dinnie 
would  say,  precisely  as  she  would  say  it 
to  Uncle  Billy,  the  butler,  and  straight 
way  Satan  would  launch  himself  at  it — 
bang!  He  never  would  learn  to  close  it 
softly,  for  Satan  liked  that — bang! 

If  you  kept  tossing  a  coin  or  marble  in 
the  air,  Satan  would  keep  catching  it  and 
putting  it  back  in  your  hand  for  another 
throw,  till  you  got  tired.  Then  he  would 
drop  it  on  a  piece  of  rag  carpet,  snatch 
the  carpet  with  his  teeth,  throw  the  coin 
across  the  room  and  rush  for  it  like  mad, 
until  he  got  tired.  If  you  put  a  penny  on 
[205] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

his  nose,  he  would  wait  until  you  counted, 
one — two — three!  Then  he  would  toss  it 
up  himself  and  catch  it.  Thus,  perhaps, 
Satan  grew  to  love  Mammon  right  well, 
but  for  another  and  better  reason  than 
that  he  liked  simply  to  throw  it  around — 
as  shall  now  be  made  plain. 

A  rubber  ball  with  a  hole  in  it  was  his 
favorite  plaything,  and  he  would  take  it 
in  his  mouth  and  rush  around  the  house 
like  a  child,  squeezing  it  to  make  it  whistle. 
When  he  got  a  new  ball,  he  would  hide  his 
old  one  away  until  the  new  one  was  the 
worse  worn  of  the  two,  and  then  he  would 
bring  out  the  old  one  again.  If  Dinnie 
gave  him  a  nickel  or  a  dime,  when  they 
went  down-town,  Satan  would  rush  into  a 
store,  rear  up  on  the  counter  where  the  rub 
ber  balls  we.e  kept,  drop  the  coin,  and  get 
a  ball  for  himself.  Thus,  Satan  learned 

[206] 


Satan  would  drop  the  coin  and  get  a  ball  for  himself. 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

finance.  He  began  to  hoard  his  pennies, 
and  one  day  Uncle  Carey  found  a  pile  of 
seventeen  under  a  corner  of  the  carpet. 
Usually  he  carried  to  Dinnie  all  coins  that 
he  found  in  the  street,  but  he  showed  one 
day  that  he  was  going  into  the  ball-busi 
ness  for  himself.  Uncle  Carey  had  given 
Dinnie  a  nickel  for  some  candy,  and,  as 
usual,  Satan  trotted  down  the  street  behind 
her.  As  usual,  Satan  stopped  before  the 
knick-knack  shop. 

"Turn  on,  Saty,"  said  Dinnie.  Satan 
reared  against  the  door  as  he  always  did, 
and  Dinnie  said  again: 

"Turn  on,  Saty."  As  usual,  Satan 
dropped  to  his  haunches,  but  what  was 
unusual,  he  failed  to  bark.  Now  Dinnie 
had  got  a  new  ball  for  Satan  only  that 
morning,  so  Dinnie  stamped  her  foot. 

"I  tell  you  to  turn  on,  Saty."  Satan 
[207] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

never  moved.  He  looked  at  Dinnie  as 
much  as  to  say: 

"I  have  never  disobeyed  you  before, 
little  mistress,  but  this  time  I  have  an  ex 
cellent  reason  for  what  must  seem  to  you 
very  bad  manners — "  and  being  a  gentle 
man  withal,  Satan  rose  on  his  haunches 
and  begged. 

"You're  des  a  pig,  Saty,"  said  Dinnie, 
but  with  a  sigh  for  the  candy  that  was  not 
to  be,  Dinnie  opened  the  door,  and  Satan, 
to  her  wonder,  rushed  to  the  counter,  put 
his  forepaws  on  it,  and  dropped  from  his 
mouth  a  dime.  Satan  had  found  that  coin 
on  the  street.  He  didn't  bark  for  change, 
nor  beg  for  two  balls,  but  he  had  got  it 
in  his  woolly  little  head,  somehow,  that 
in  that  store  a  coin  meant  a  ball,  though 
never  before  nor  afterward  did  he  try  to 
get  a  ball  for  a  penny. 

[208] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

Satan  slept  in  Uncle  Carey's  room,  for 
of  all  people,  after  Dinnie,  Satan  loved 
Uncle  Carey  best.  Every  day  at  noon  he 
would  go  to  an  upstairs  window  and  watch 
the  cars  come  around  the  corner,  until  a 
very  tall,  square-shouldered  young  man 
swung  to  the  ground,  and  down  Satan 
would  scamper — yelping — to  meet  him  at 
the  gate.  If  Uncle  Carey,  after  supper 
and  when  Dinnie  was  in  bed,  started  out 
of  the  house,  still  in  his  business  clothes, 
Satan  would  leap  out  before  him,  knowing 
that  he  too  might  be  allowed  to  go;  but 
if  Uncle  Carey  had  put  on  black  clothes 
that  showed  a  big,  dazzling  shirt-front, 
and  picked  up  his  high  hat,  Satan  would 
sit  perfectly  still  and  look  disconsolate; 
for  as  there  were  no  parties  or  theatres 
for  Dinnie,  so  there  were  none  for  him. 
But  no  matter  how  late  it  was  when  Uncle 
[209] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

Carey  came  home,  he  always  saw  Satan's 
little  black  nose  against  the  window-pane 
and  heard  his  bark  of  welcome. 

After  intelligence,  Satan's  chief  trait 
was  lovableness — nobody  ever  knew  him 
to  fight,  to  snap  at  anything,  or  to  get 
angry;  after  lovableness,  it  was  politeness. 
If  he  wanted  something  to  eat,  if  he 
wanted  Dinnie  to  go  to  bed,  if  he  wanted 
to  get  out  of  the  door,  he  would  beg — 
beg  prettily  on  his  haunches,  his  little  red 
tongue  out  and  his  funny  little  paws  hang 
ing  loosely.  Indeed,  it  was  just  because 
Satan  was  so  little  less  than  human,  I  sup 
pose,  that  old  Satan  began  to  be  afraid  he 
might  have  a  soul.  So  the  wicked  old 
namesake  with  the  Hoofs  and  Horns  laid 
a  trap  for  little  Satan,  and,  as  he  is  apt  to 
do,  he  began  laying  it  early — long,  indeed, 
before  Christmas. 

[210] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

When  Dinnie  started  to  kindergarten 
that  autumn,  Satan  found  that  there  was 
one  place  where  he  could  never  go.  Like 
the  lamb,  he  could  not  go  to  school;  so 
while  Dinnie  was  away,  Satan  began  to 
make  friends.  He  would  bark,  "Howdy- 
do?"  to  every  dog  that  passed  his  gate. 
Many  stopped  to  rub  noses  with  him 
through  the  fence — even  Hugo  the  mas 
tiff,  and  nearly  all,  indeed,  except  one 
strange-looking  dog  that  appeared  every 
morning  at  precisely  nine  o'clock  and  took 
his  stand  on  the  corner.  There  he  would 
lie  patiently  until  a  funeral  came  along, 
and  then  Satan  would  see  him  take  his 
place  at  the  head  of  the  procession;  and 
thus  he  would  march  out  to  the  cemetery 
and  back  again.  Nobody  knew  where  he 
came  from  nor  where  he  went,  and  Uncle 
Carey  called  him  the  "funeral  dog"  and 

[211] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

said  he  was  doubtless  looking  for  his  dead 
master.  Satan  even  made  friends  with  a 
scrawny  little  yellow  dog  that  followed  an 
old  drunkard  around — a  dog  that,  when 
his  master  fell  in  the  gutter,  would  go  and 
catch  a  policeman  by  the  coat-tail,  lead  the 
officer  to  his  helpless  master,  and  spend 
the  night  with  him  in  jail. 

By  and  by  Satan  began  to  slip  out  of 
the  house  at  night,  and  Uncle  Billy  said 
he  reckoned  Satan  had  ujined  de  club"; 
and  late  one  night,  when  he  had  not  come 
in,  Uncle  Billy  told  Uncle  Carey  that  it 
was  "powerful  slippery  and  he  reckoned 
they'd  better  send  de  kerridge  after  him" 
— an  innocent  remark  that  made  Uncle 
Carey  send  a  boot  after  the  old  butler, 
who  fled  chuckling  down  the  stairs,  and 
left  Uncle  Carey  chuckling  in  his  room. 

Satan  had  ujined  de  club" — the  big  club 

2I2 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

— and  no  dog  was  too  lowly  in  Satan's 
eyes  for  admission;  for  no  priest  ever 
preached  the  brotherhood  of  man  better 
than  Satan  lived  it — both  with  man  and 
dog.  And  thus  he  lived  it  that  Christmas 
night — to  his  sorrow. 

Christmas  Eve  had  been  gloomy — the 
gloomiest  of  Satan's  life.  Uncle  Carey  had 
gone  to  a  neighboring  town  at  noon.  Sa 
tan  had  followed  him  down  to  the  station, 
and  when  the  train  started,  Uncle  Carey 
had  ordered  him  to  go  home.  Satan  took 
his  time  about  going  home,  not  knowing 
it  was  Christmas  Eve.  He  found  strange 
things  happening  to  dogs  that  day.  The 
truth  was,  that  policemen  were  shooting 
all  dogs  found  that  were  without  a  collar 
and  a  license,  and  every  now  and  then  a 
bang  and  a  howl  somewhere  would  stop 
Satan  in  his  tracks.  At  a  little  yellow  house 
[213] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

on  the  edge  of  town  he  saw  half  a  dozen 
strange  dogs  in  a  kennel,  and  every  now 
and  then  a  negro  would  lead  a  new  one  up 
to  the  house  and  deliver  him  to  a  big  man 
at  the  door,  who,  in  return,  would  drop 
something  into  the  negro's  hand.  While 
Satan  waited,  the  old  drunkard  came  along 
with  his  little  dog  at  his  heels,  paused  be 
fore  the  door,  looked  a  moment  at  his 
faithful  follower,  and  went  slowly  on.  Sa 
tan  little  knew  the  old  drunkard's  tempta 
tion,  for  in  that  yellow  house  kind-hearted 
people  had  offered  fifteen  cents  for  each 
dog  brought  to  them,  without  a  license, 
that  they  might  mercifully  put  it  to  death, 
and  fifteen  cents  was  the  precise  price  for 
a  drink  of  good  whiskey.  Just  then  there 
was  another  bang  and  another  howl  some 
where,  and  Satan  trotted  home  to  meet  a 
calamity.  Dinnie  was  gone.  Her  mother 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

had  taken  her  out  in  the  country  to  Grand 
mother  Dean's  to  spend  Christmas,  as  was 
the  family  custom,  and  Mrs.  Dean  would 
not  wait  any  longer  for  Satan;  so  she 
told  Uncle  Billy  to  bring  him  out  after 
supper. 

"Ain't  you  'shamed  o'  yo'self — suh — ?" 
said  the  old  butler,  "keepin'  me  from 
ketchin'  Christmas  gifts  dis  day?" 

Uncle  Billy  was  indignant,  for  the  ne 
groes  begin  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
of  Christmas  Eve  to  slip  around  corners 
and  jump  from  hiding  places  to  shout 
"Christmas  Gif— Christmas  Gif";  and 
the  one  who  shouts  first  gets  a  gift.  No 
wonder  it  was  gloomy  for  Satan — Uncle 
Carey,  Dinnie,  and  all  gone,  and  not  a 
soul  but  Uncle  Billy  in  the  big  house. 
Every  few  minutes  he  would  trot  on  his 
little  black  legs  upstairs  and  downstairs, 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

looking  for  his  mistress.  As  dusk  came  on, 
he  would  every  now  and  then  howl  plain 
tively.  After  begging  his  supper,  and  while 
Uncle  Billy  was  hitching  up  a  horse  in  the 
stable,  Satan  went  out  in  the  yard  and  lay 
with  his  nose  between  the  close  panels  of 
the  fence — quite  heart-broken.  When  he 
saw  his  old  friend,  Hugo  the  mastiff,  trot 
ting  into  the  gaslight,  he  began  to  bark 
his  delight  frantically.  The  big  mastiff 
stopped  and  nosed  his  sympathy  through 
the  fence  for  a  moment  and  walked  slowly 
on,  Satan  frisking  and  barking  along  in 
side.  At  the  gate  Hugo  stopped,  and  rais 
ing  one  huge  paw,  playfully  struck  it.  The 
gate  flew  open,  and  with  a  happy  yelp 
Satan  leaped  into  the  street.  The  noble 
mastiff  hesitated  as  though  this  were  not 
quite  regular.  He  did  not  belong  to  the 
club,  and  he  didn't  know  that  Satan  had 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

ever  been  away  from  home  after  dark 
in  his  life.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  to 
wait  for  Dinnie  to  call  him  back  as  she 
always  did,  but  this  time  there  was  no 
sound,  and  Hugo  walked  majestically  on, 
with  absurd  little  Satan  running  in  a  circle 
about  him.  On  the  way  they  met  the 
ufuneral  dog,"  who  glanced  inquiringly 
at  Satan,  shied  from  the  mastiff,  and  trot 
ted  on.  On  the  next  block  the  old  drunk 
ard's  yellow  cur  ran  across  the  street,  and 
after  interchanging  the  compliments  of 
the  season,  ran  back  after  his  staggering 
master.  As  they  approached  the  railroad 
track  a  strange  dog  joined  them,  to  whom 
Hugo  paid  no  attention.  At  the  crossing 
another  new  acquaintance  bounded  toward 
them.  This  one — a  half-breed  shepherd 
— was  quite  friendly,  and  he  received  Sa 
tan's  advances  with  affable  condescension. 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

Then  another  came  and  another,  and  little 
Satan's  head  got  quite  confused.  They 
were  a  queer-looking  lot  of  curs  and  half- 
breeds  from  the  negro  settlement  at  the 
edge  of  the  woods,  and  though  Satan  had 
little  experience,  his  instincts  told  him  that 
all  was  not  as  it  should  be,  and  had  he 
been  human  he  would  have  wondered  very 
much  how  they  had  escaped  the  carnage 
that  day.  Uneasy,  he  looked  around  for 
Hugo;  but  Hugo  had  disappeared.  Once 
or  twice  Hugo  had  looked  around  for  Sa 
tan,  and  Satan  paying  no  attention,  the 
mastiff  trotted  on  home  in  disgust.  Just 
then  a  powerful  yellow  cur  sprang  out  of 
the  darkness  over  the  railroad  track,  and 
Satan  sprang  to  meet  him,  and  so  nearly 
had  the  life  scared  out  of  him  by  the  snarl 
and  flashing  fangs  of  the  new-comer  that 
he  hardly  had  the  strength  to  shrink  back 

[218] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

behind  his  new  friend,  the  half-breed  shep 
herd. 

A  strange  thing  then  happened.  The 
other  dogs  became  suddenly  quiet,  and 
every  eye  was  on  the  yellow  cur.  He 
sniffed  the  air  once  or  twice,  gave  two  or 
three  peculiar  low  growls,  and  all  those 
dogs  except  Satan  lost  the  civilization  of 
centuries  and  went  back  suddenly  to  the 
time  when  they  were  wolves  and  were  look 
ing  for  a  leader.  The  cur  was  Lobo  for 
that  little  pack,  and  after  a  short  parley, 
he  lifted  his  nose  high  and  started  away 
without  looking  back,  while  the  other  dogs 
silently  trotted  after  him.  With  a  mysti 
fied  yelp,  Satan  ran  after  them.  The  cur 
did  not  take  the  turnpike,  but  jumped  the 
fence  into  a  field,  making  his  way  by  the 
rear  of  houses,  from  which  now  and  then 
another  dog  would  slink  out  and  silently 
[219] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

join  the  band.  Every  one  of  them  Satan 
nosed  most  friendlily,  and  to  his  great  joy 
the  funeral  dog,  on  the  edge  of  town, 
leaped  into  their  midst.  Ten  minutes  later 
the  cur  stopped  in  the  midst  of  some 
woods,  as  though  he  would  inspect  his  fol 
lowers.  Plainly,  he  disapproved  of  Satan, 
and  Satan  kept  out  of  his  way.  Then  he 
sprang  into  the  turnpike  and  the  band 
trotted  down  it,  under  flying  black  clouds 
and  shifting  bands  of  brilliant  moonlight. 
Once,  a  buggy  swept  past  them.  A  famil 
iar  odor  struck  Satan's  nose,  and  he  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  smell  the  horse's  tracks; 
and  right  he  was,,  too,  for  out  at  her  grand 
mother's  Dinnie  refused  to  be  comforted, 
and  in  that  buggy  was  Uncle  Billy  going 
back  to  town  after  him. 

Snow  was  falling.     It  was  a  great  lark 
for  Satan.     Once  or  twice,  as  he  trotted 
[  220  ] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

along,  he  had  to  bark  his  joy  aloud,  and 
each  time  the  big  cur  gave  him  such  a 
fierce  growl  that  he  feared  thereafter  to 
open  his  jaws.  But  he  was  happy  for  all 
that,  to  be  running  out  into  the  night  with 
such  a  lot  of  funny  friends  and  not  to  know 
or  care  where  he  was  going.  He  got  pretty 
tired  presently,  for  over  hill  and  down 
hill  they  went,  at  that  unceasing  trot, 
trot,  trot!  Satan's  tongue  began  to  hang 
out.  Once  he  stopped  to  rest,  but  the  lone 
liness  frightened  him  and  he  ran  on  after 
them  with  his  heart  almost  bursting.  He 
was  about  to  lie  right  down  and  die,  when 
the  cur  stopped,  sniffed  the  air  once  or 
twice,  and  with  those  same  low  growls, 
led  the  marauders  through  a  rail  fence 
into  the  woods,  and  lay  quietly  down.  How 
Satan  loved  that  soft,  thick  grass,  all 
snowy  that  it  was !  It  was  almost  as  good 
[221  ] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

as  his  own  bed  at  home.  And  there  they 
lay — how  long,  Satan  never  knew,  for  he 
went  to  sleep  and  dreamed  that  he  was 
after  a  rat  in  the  barn  at  home;  and  he 
yelped  in  his  sleep,  which  made  the  cur 
lift  his  big  yellow  head  and  show  his  fangs. 
The  moving  of  the  half-breed  shepherd 
and  the  funeral  dog  waked  him  at  last,  and 
Satan  got  up.  Half  crouching,  the  cur 
was  leading  the  way  toward  the  dark,  still 
woods  on  top  of  the  hill,  over  which  the 
Star  of  Bethlehem  was  lowly  sinking,  and 
under  which  lay  a  flock  of  the  gentle  crea 
tures  that  seemed  to  have  been  almost 
sacred  to  the  Lord  of  that  Star.  They 
were  in  sore  need  of  a  watchful  shepherd 
now.  Satan  was  stiff  and  chilled,  but  he 
was  rested  and  had  had  his  sleep,  and  he 
was  just  as  ready  for  fun  as  he  always  was. 
He  didn't  understand  that  sneaking.  Why 

[222] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

they  didn't  all  jump  and  race  and  bark  as 
he  wanted  to,  he  couldn't  see;  but  he  was 
too  polite  to  do  otherwise  than  as  they 
did,  and  so  he  sneaked  after  them;  and 
one  would  have  thought  he  knew,  as  well 
as  the  rest,  the  hellish  mission  on  which 
they  were  bent. 

Out  of  the  woods  they  went,  across  a 
little  branch,  and  there  the  big  cur  lay  flat 
again  in  the  grass.  A  faint  bleat  came 
from  the  hill-side  beyond,  where  Satan 
could  see  another  woods — and  then  an 
other  bleat,  and  another.  And  the  cur  be 
gan  to  creep  again,  like  a  snake  in  the 
grass;  and  the  others  crept  too,  and  little 
Satan  crept,  though  it  was  all  a  sad  mys 
tery  to  him.  Again  the  cur  lay  still,  but 
only  long  enough  for  Satan  to  see  curious, 
fat,  white  shapes  above  him — and  then, 
with  a  blood-curdling  growl,  the  big  brute 

["31 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

dashed  forward.  Oh,  there  was  fun  in 
them  after  all!  Satan  barked  joyfully. 
Those  were  some  new  playmates — those 
fat,  white,  hairy  things  up  there ;  and  Satan 
was  amazed  when,  with  frightened  snorts, 
they  fled  in  every  direction.  But  this  was 
a  new  game,  perhaps,  of  which  he  knew 
nothing,  and  as  did  the  rest,  so  did  Satan. 
He  picked  out  one  of  the  white  things  and 
fled  barking  after  it.  It  was  a  little  fellow 
that  he  was  after,  but  little  as  he  was, 
Satan  might  never  have  caught  up,  had  not 
the  sheep  got  tangled  in  some  brush.  Satan 
danced  about  him  in  mad  glee,  giving  him 
a  playful  nip  at  his  wool  and  springing 
back  to  give  him  another  nip,  and  then 
away  again.  Plainly,  he  was  not  going 
to  bite  back,  and  when  the  sheep  struggled 
itself  tired  and  sank  down  in  a  heap,  Satan 
came  close  and  licked  him,  and  as  he  was 
[224] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

very  warm  and  woolly,  he  lay  down  and 
snuggled  up  against  him  for  awhile,  listen 
ing  to  the  turmoil  that  was  going  on  around 
him.  And  as  he  listened,  he  got  fright 
ened. 

If  this  was  a  new  game  it  was  certainly 
a  very  peculiar  one — the  wild  rush,  the 
bleats  of  terror,  gasps  of  agony,  and  the 
fiendish  growls  of  attack  and  the  sounds 
of  ravenous  gluttony.  With  every  hair 
bristling,  Satan  rose  and  sprang  from  the 
woods — and  stopped  with  a  fierce  tingling 
of  the  nerves  that  brought  him  horror  and 
fascination.  One  of  the  white  shapes  lay 
still  before  him.  There  was  a  great  steam 
ing  red  splotch  on  the  snow,  and  a  strange 
odor  in  the  air  that  made  him  dizzy;  but 
only  for  a  moment.  Another  white  shape 
rushed  by.  A  tawny  streak  followed,  and 
then,  in  a  patch  of  moonlight,  Satan  saw 
[225] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

the  yellow  cur  with  his  teeth  fastened  in 
the  throat  of  his  moaning  playmate.  Like 
lightning  Satan  sprang  at  the  cur,  who 
tossed  him  ten  feet  away  and  went  back 
to  his  awful  work.  Again  Satan  leaped, 
but  just  then  a  shout  rose  behind  him,  and 
the  cur  leaped  too  as  though  a  bolt  of 
lightning  had  crashed  over  him,  and,  no 
longer  noticing  Satan  or  sheep,  began  to 
quiver  with  fright  and  slink  away.  An 
other  shout  rose  from  another  direction — 
another  from  another. 

"Drive  'em  into  the  barn-yard!"  was 
the  cry. 

Now  and  then  there  was  a  fearful  bang 
and  a  howl  of  death-agony,  as  some  dog 
tried  to  break  through  the  encircling  men, 
who  yelled  and  cursed  as  they  closed  in  on 
the  trembling  brutes  that  slunk  together 
and  crept  on;  for  it  is  said,  every  sheep- 

[226] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

killing  dog  knows  his  fate  if  caught,  and 
will  make  little  effort  to  escape.  With 
them  went  Satan,  through  the  barn-yard 
gate,  where  they  huddled  in  a  corner — a 
shamed  and  terrified  group.  A  tall  over 
seer  stood  at  the  gate. 

"Ten  of  'em!"  he  said  grimly. 

He  had  been  on  the  lookout  for  just 
such  a  tragedy,  for  there  had  recently  been 
a  sheep-killing  raid  on  several  farms  in 
that  neighborhood,  and  for  several  nights 
he  had  had  a  lantern  hung  out  on  the  edge 
of  the  woods  to  scare  the  dogs  away;  but 
a  drunken  farm-hand  had  neglected  his 
duty  that  Christmas  Eve. 

"Yassuh,  an'  dey's  jus'  sebenteen  dead 
sheep  out  dar,"  said  a  negro. 

"Look  at  the  little  one,"  said  a  tall  boy 
who  looked  like  the  overseer;  and  Satan 
knew  that  he  spoke  of  him. 
[227] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

"Go  back  to  the  house,  son,"  said  the 
overseer,  aand  tell  your  mother  to  give  you 
a  Christmas  present  I  got  for  you  yester 
day."  With  a  glad  whoop  the  boy  dashed 
away,  and  in  a  moment  dashed  back  with 
a  brand-new  .32  Winchester  in  his  hand. 

The  dark  hour  before  dawn  was  just 
breaking  on  Christmas  Day.  It  was  the 
hour  when  Satan  usually  rushed  upstairs 
to  see  if  his  little  mistress  was  asleep.  If 
he  were  only  at  home  now,  and  if  he  only 
had  known  how  his  little  mistress  was 
weeping  for  him  amid  her  playthings  and 
his — two  new  balls  and  a  brass-studded 
collar  with  a  silver  plate  on  which  was  his 
name,  Satan  Dean;  and  if  Dinnie  could 
have  seen  him  now,  her  heart  would  have 
broken;  for  the  tall  boy  raised  his  gun. 
There  was  a  jet  of  smoke,  a  sharp,  clean 
crack,  and  the  funeral  dog  started  on  the 

[228] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

right  way  at  last  toward  his  dead  master. 
Another  crack,  and  the  yellow  cur  leaped 
from  the  ground  and  fell  kicking.  An 
other  crack  and  another,  and  with  each 
crack  a  dog  tumbled,  until  little  Satan  sat 
on  his  haunches  amid  the  writhing  pack, 
alone.  His  time  was  now  come.  As  the 
rifle  was  raised,  he  heard  up  at  the  big 
house  the  cries  of  children;  the  popping 
of  fire-crackers ;  tooting  of  horns  and  whis 
tles  and  loud  shouts  of  " Christmas  Gif, 
Christmas  Gif!"  His  little  heart  beat 
furiously.  Perhaps  he  knew  just  what  he 
was  doing;  perhaps  it  was  the  accident  of 
habit;  most  likely  Satan  simply  wanted  to 
go  home — but  when  that  gun  rose,  Satan 
rose  too,  on  his  haunches,  his  tongue  out, 
his  black  eyes  steady  and  his  funny  little 
paws  hanging  loosely — and  begged !  The 
boy  lowered  the  gun. 

[229] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

"Down,  sir!"  Satan  dropped  obedient 
ly,  but  when  the  gun  was  lifted  again, 
Satan  rose  again,  and  again  he  begged. 

"Down,  I  tell  you!"  This  time  Satan 
would  not  down,  but  sat  begging  for  his 
life.  The  boy  turned. 

"Papa,  I  can't  shoot  that  dog."  Per 
haps  Satan  had  reached  the  stern  old  over 
seer's  heart.  Perhaps  he  remembered  sud 
denly  that  it  was  Christmas.  At  any  rate, 
he  said  gruffly: 

"Well,  let  him  go." 

"Come  here,  sir!"  Satan  bounded 
toward  the  tall  boy,  frisking  and  trustful 
and  begged  again. 

"Go  home,  sir!" 

Satan     needed     no     second     command. 

Without  a  sound  he  fled  out  the  barn-yard, 

and,  as  he  swept  under  the  front  gate,  a 

little  girl  ran  out  of  the  front  door  of  the 

[230] 


Papa,  I  can't  shoot  that  dog. 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

big  house  and  dashed  down  the  steps, 
shrieking : 

"Saty!  Saty!  Oh,  Saty!"  But  Satan 
never  heard.  On  he  fled,  across  the  crisp 
fields,  leaped  the  fence  and  struck  the 
road,  lickety-split !  for  home,  while  Dinnie 
dropped  sobbing  in  the  snow. 

"Hitch  up  a  horse,  quick,"  said  Uncle 
Carey,  rushing  after  Dinnie  and  taking 
her  up  in  his  arms.  Ten  minutes  later, 
Uncle  Carey  and  Dinnie,  both  warmly 
bundled  up,  were  after  flying  Satan.  They 
never  caught  him  until  they  reached  the 
hill  on  the  outskirts  of  town,  where  was 
the  kennel  of  the  kind-hearted  people  who 
were  giving  painless  death  to  Satan's  four- 
footed  kind,  and  where  they  saw  him  stop 
and  turn  from  the  road.  There  was  di 
vine  providence  in  Satan's  flight  for  one 
little  dog  that  Christmas  morning;  for 
[231  ] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

Uncle  Carey  saw  the  old  drunkard  stag 
gering  down  the  road  without  his  little 
companion,  and  a  moment  later,  both  he 
and  Dinnie  saw  Satan  nosing  a  little  yel 
low  cur  between  the  palings.  Uncle  Carey 
knew  the  little  cur,  and  while  Dinnie  was 
shrieking  for  Satan,  he  was  saying  under 
his  breath: 

"Well,  I  swear! — I  swear! — I  swear!" 
And  while  the  big  man  who  came  to  the 
door  was  putting  Satan  into  Dinnie's  arms, 
he  said  sharply: 

"Who  brought  that  yellow  dog  here?" 
The  man  pointed  to  the  old  drunkard's 
figure  turning  a  corner  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill. 

"I  thought  so;  I  thought  so.  He  sold 
him  to  you  for — for  a  drink  of  whiskey." 

The  man  whistled. 

"Bring  him  out.  I'll  pay  his  license." 
[232] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

So  back  went  Satan  and  the  little  cur  to 
Grandmother  Dean's — and  Dinnie  cried 
when  Uncle  Carey  told  her  why  he  was 
taking  the  little  cur  along.  With  her  own 
hands  she  put  Satan's  old  collar  on  the 
little  brute,  took  him  to  the  kitchen,  and 
fed  him  first  of  all.  Then  she  went  into 
the  breakfast-room. 

"Uncle  Billy,"  she  said  severely,  "didn't 
I  tell  you  not  to  let  Saty  out?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Dinnie,"  said  the  old  butler. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  goin'  to  whoop 
you  if  you  let  Saty  out?" 

"Yes,  Miss  Dinnie." 

Miss  Dinnie  pulled  forth  from  her 
Christmas  treasures  a  toy  riding-whip  and 
the  old  darky's  eyes  began  to  roll  in  mock 
terror. 

"I'm  sorry,  Uncle  Billy,  but  I  des  got 
to  whoop  you  a  little." 
[233] 


CHRISTMAS    NIGHT    WITH    SATAN 

"Let  Uncle  Billy  off,  Dinnie,"  said  Un 
cle  Carey,  "this  is  Christmas." 

"All  wite,"  said  Dinnie,  and  she  turned 
to  Satan. 

In  his  shining  new  collar  and  innocent 
as  a  cherub,  Satan  sat  on  the  hearth  beg 
ging  for  his  breakfast. 


[234] 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-9,'70(N9877s8) 458 — A-31/5,6 


N?  811794 


PS1702 
Fox,   J.  C5 

Christmas  eve  on 
Lonesome. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


